The Butcher
by Scooter Kitty
Summary: AU. A very different version of the team tracks a serial killer in 1890s New York.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I feel I should give fair warning that this story is WAY AU. I have changed the roles of all the characters and their ages, but have tried to stay true to their natures on the show. I'm just playing around with the characters and trying to show them in a different light. Also, I am not a historian. I have done some research for the story and will endeavor to be as historically accurate as I can, but I'm simply not going to obsess over a fan fiction story. So, please forgive any errors I might make (although feel free to point them out).

You should also be aware that this story will contain racist and sexist remarks appropriate to the time period. If this is going to bother you, please don't read and please, don't assume that these are my opinions. This story was somewhat inspired by the books "The Alienist" and "The Angel of Darkness" by Caleb Carr (excellent books btw, I highly recommend them).

This story will deal with the whole team, but like all my other stories, will be heavily Nick-centric.

Oh, yeah, and I don't own any of this. It all belongs to CBS and the writers of 'CSI'. Please don't sue, etc.

11/19/06

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 1

Santorelli Ranch, just outside of Dallas, Texas, early May, late 1890s.

The sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon as the three riders made their way across the pastures of the Santorelli Ranch. Thick tufts of off-white fuzz from the nearby stand of cottonwood trees floated lazily in the gentle breeze, lightly coating the ground like snow. It would have been an idyllic scene had the clear sky up ahead not been disturbed by the large, dark, ominous shape of a buzzard slowing circling.

One of the riders turned to the man riding beside him and gestured toward the carrion bird. "John..."

Looking up, the older man also saw the bird. "Oh, hell..." he groaned. Addressing the young boy who rode ahead of the two men, he said, "Franky, please tell me your father didn't shoot nobody."

The boy twisted around on his horse to look back at the two men. "No, Papa didn't shoot nobody. Just come and see."

Looking at the boy's pale, anxious face, John decided to hold his peace. They hadn't been able to get much information out of the boy when he'd first shown up at the Stokes Ranch where they were staying. He'd only said that they were needed at his father's ranch. But whatever had happened, it wasn't the boy's doing. Interrogating him was a waste of time. The three riders continued in silence until they neared the spot the boy was leading them to, directly under the area the vulture was circling.

Up ahead of them, the three could just make out Vito Santorelli, Franky's father, standing beside a large indistinct shape on the ground. As they drew closer, that shape became more defined and they could see it was a dead cow. There was a great deal of blood and, even from several yards out, the buzz of the small cloud of flies was audible.

The three riders stopped and the boy remained where he was as the two men dismounted. The horses were already becoming skittish, disturbed by the stench of the blood. Handing their reigns to the boy, the two men started toward the other man and the carcass.

"Vito, tell me you didn't drag me out of bed just to come look at a dead cow," John called out as they approached. "The Rangers deal with cattle rustlers, we don't track coyotes for you. You're on your own for that."

"No animal did this!" Vito snapped back, his Italian accent suddenly more pronounced. The tall, burly rancher looked spooked and agitated. "You come and look at this, John Preston, and you tell me that a coyote did this!"

Moving to stand beside the dead animal, John looked down and felt even his hardened stomach do an uneasy somersault. The animal wasn't just dead, it had been mutilated. The flesh from its entire head had been peeled away, leaving the bloody skull exposed. It appeared that the animal's throat had been slit first. There were no other wounds on the body. There was no tearing, no teeth marks, nothing. Clearly no animal had done this.

"What the hell..." John muttered softly.

"See, I told you," Vito said triumphantly. "Coyote didn't do this. Indians did this. I mean, who else could it be? Who else would do something so sick?"

"Now, calm down, Vito," John said, looking up at the rancher. "There ain't any Indians left around here. They've all been rounded up and put on the reservations."

"You don't know that! There could be a few rogue braves running around loose, causing havoc, killing cattle. You better do something about this! I got women to worry about!" Vito said, gesturing emphatically in the direction of his ranch house.

"All right, all right, easy now, we'll look into it, but I really don't think you or your family is in any danger. Now, we'll find the guy and we'll get him to pay you for the cost of the cow."

"Right now, I don't care about the cost. I mean, look what he did to it! That's not right! I tell you, it's a sign from God. The End of Days are coming!"

Ignoring this last comment, John glanced back down at the carcass and was amazed to see his young partner kneeling down to examine the skull closer. "Nick, what the hell are you doing, boy?"

"I just want to see how this was done," the younger man answered. "Whoever did this sure knew what he was doing. He peeled the whole hide off in one piece." Nick gestured to the discarded skin. "We should have photographs taken of this."

"What the hell for?" John asked, repulsed by the very idea of preserving this gruesome scene.

"Well my father's always saying that he wished there was some way that he and the jurors could see the crimes the defendants are charged with. If we take photographs of this, then the jurors can see what was done, instead of just hearing about it."

"Jurors? What are you talking about? Nick, it ain't a crime to kill a cow. That's what they're for."

"It's a crime when it's someone else's cow. Besides, you kill a cow for the meat or for the hide. Whoever did this, didn't care about any of that. He left it all here to rot. It's as if whoever did this, just wanted to see the cow die. And why? A cow never hurt anybody. If a man could kill something so harmless for no good reason, what else do you think he could do?"

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to drag Arthur Hayes out here to photograph a dead cow. I'd never hear the end of it."

The younger man let this go, but continued to examine the carcass. He noted that the edges of the wounds were clean, not ragged. The butcher, whoever he was, had used a very sharp knife. If Nick hadn't been disgusted with the wastefulness of the killing, he might have been impressed with the man's skill with a knife.

Looking around, the young Ranger also noted that the ground around the carcass was undisturbed. The cow must have been asleep at the time. Cows slept standing up and they were easy to sneak up on and tip over, or kill. The kill had obviously been quick and clean. The cow had simply dropped, with no lingering death throes. Yes, whoever had done this had been quite accustomed to killing.

Nick Stokes was a Texas Ranger and had grown up on a ranch. He'd seen plenty of dead cattle in his relatively short life. Hell, he'd even killed a few himself, but there was something about the whole callousness and brutality of this situation that bothered him and he wasn't entirely sure why. It wasn't the fact that the cow had been killed. It was the way it had been killed. And why had the butcher killed it in the first place, if not for the meat? And why skin its face off? The whole thing left Nick feeling slightly chilled.

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"I don't know why I told Santorelli that we'd look into this," John grumbled as he and Nick walked along the boardwalk toward the sheriff's office. "This shouldn't be our responsibility. This should be Ted's problem. Hell, we weren't even supposed to be here. You know, instead of just asking him about this, we should pass this off on him. Let him handle it. After all, it is his jurisdiction."

"Yeah, but you did tell Santorelli that we'd take care of it. Are you going to go back on your word?" Nick asked.

Personally, he was in favor of staying on the case. He was quite curious about who this person was. Besides, it wasn't as if they had anything more pressing to be working on at the present time. They had originally been on their way back to Austen, but had decided to swing through Dallas to stay with Nick's parents for a few days, as they often did when they were in the area.

"No," John reluctantly conceded. "We'll look into it, just like I promised, although I think it's a waste of our time. It's just one dead cow, for crying out loud. Just because Santorelli thinks it's the 'End of Days', doesn't mean that we should have to run around town, asking questions..."

John continued to gripe until the two men reached the office of Ted Willoughby, the sheriff of Dallas, Texas. Entering the office, they found one of Willoughby's deputies seated at a desk in the main lobby, drinking coffee and staring vacantly into space.

He was a tall, skinny, young man, about twenty years old, with an unruly thatch of thick blond hair and slightly bulging, blue eyes. His name was Matt Haskins and he always reminded Nick of a frightened scarecrow. The young deputy quickly forced himself back to full alertness and scrambled to his feet as he saw the two Rangers enter.

"Oh, hey, Mr. Preston, Mr. Stokes," Haskins greeted the two men enthusiastically.

Nick flinched inwardly. He really hated it when Haskins called him 'Mr. Stokes'. He was only a few years older than the other man and he always felt like a complete imposter being addressed so formally.

"Hey, Matt," John said. "Is Ted in his office?"

"Yes sir."

"You think he'd mind if we went in to talk to him for a few minutes?"

"Oh, no sir, go right ahead."

"Thanks, Son."

Nick nodded his own greeting to the deputy and followed John to the back of the small lobby, to the door marked 'Sheriff" in large, black painted letters. John knocked and a muffled voice invited them to enter.

Inside the small office, hunched behind a small, battered desk was Ted Willoughby. He was a tall, lanky man in his mid-fifties. He had thinning gray hair and a matching limp mustache. He looked up at his visitors with far less enthusiasm than his deputy.

"Well, if you two are here, it can't be good news," Willoughby said, leaning back in his chair, his tone cool.

The Texas Rangers were a bit of an anomaly. They were a former military unit, turned law enforcement and their jurisdiction covered the entire state of Texas. But they had no clearly defined function. For the most part, they tracked cattle rustlers, as rustlers could, and often did, roam the large state, moving from one jurisdiction to another. The Rangers took the lead in any cross-jurisdictional manhunt, but could also, at the request of the governor, take over any investigation, in any jurisdiction in the state. This tended to make for some tension between the Rangers and the local authorities.

"Relax, Ted, we're just here to ask some questions," John said. He sat down in the only other chair in the small office, while Nick remained standing near the door.

"What questions?"

John described the scene he and Nick had encountered at Vito Santorelli's ranch. Willoughby listened distractedly and by the end of the Ranger's monologue, the sheriff was smiling to himself.

"Let me guess," Willoughby said, "Vito claims this is a sign from God of the End of Days? Yeah, Santorelli see 'signs' everywhere. He's in here every other week, rantin' about something. I am so glad that he decided to bother you this time, instead of me. But you're not really taking this seriously, are you John?"

"No, but I told him I'd look into it. So, have you heard of anything like this? Any other ranchers report finding half-skinned cows?"

"No, I've never heard of anything like that. And before you ask, I haven't heard of any 'rogue' Indians, either."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Thanks for your time, Ted, and you'll let us know if anything comes up?" John asked, getting to his feet.

"Oh, sure, I'll let you know right away, about any more 'signs from God'," Willoughby said with a chuckle. "And you two boys have a good time, chasing your tails."

"Asshole," John said softly as the two Rangers left the sheriff's office. Nick smiled and nodded his agreement.

The sun was high when the two men left the lobby and stepped back onto the boardwalk. The day was already promising to be a warm one. The two men touched their hats and nodded their greetings to a passing woman and her husband.

"Where to now?" Nick asked.

"Let's head on over to the Whistle Stop and see if anyone there has heard of anything," John suggested.

"Sure, and while we're there, we'll just have a drink or two, right?" Nick asked slyly.

"Well, we want to be sociable, now don't we?"

The Whistle Stop Saloon was located at the edge of town, right next to the train depot. With two newly completed railroad lines running beside the town, Dallas, Texas was a city on the grow. Dallas was a transfer point between the two lines and people often had several hours or more to wait between trains. Those people needed places to go and things to do to occupy themselves in the meantime. The trains also brought in goods from all over the country. People from all over the state flocked to Dallas to buy things that were previously unavailable to them.

Being located next to the train depot, the Whistle Stop was a natural gathering place, not only for the tourists, but the locals as well. As such, it was the hub of incoming news from other parts of the country, as well as local gossip. As it was still fairly early in the day, the saloon wasn't very busy when the two Rangers entered and seated themselves at a central table.

They had barely gotten themselves settled in their chairs and taken off their hats, before a pretty, young woman with dark hair and wearing a bright pink, satin dress appeared beside their table. Without waiting for an invitation, the girl seated herself in Nick's lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Nick, when are you going to take me away and make an honest woman of me?" the girl asked saucily.

"Oh, when I strike it rich and I can actually afford to keep you," the young man responded, slipping his hands around her small, tightly-corsetted waist.

"Oh, well, that'll never happen," the girl said, with a mock pout.

"Kristy, when you're done molesting my partner, what do you say you bring us a couple of beers?" John asked good-naturedly, accustomed to this performance. He and Nick always stopped here when passing through Dallas, which was often, considering Nick's folks lived nearby.

"Sure, John," Kristy said with a smile and got to her feet. She playfully ruffled Nick's dark hair as she started back toward the bar.

The young man turned in his chair to watch appreciatively as she walked away, enjoying the impertinent swish of her skirts and the way her dress revealed a scandalous amount of shapely calf and ankle. John watched his young partner in amusement.

"Instead of just watching the girl and flirting with her all the time, why don't you just take her upstairs and give her a tumble in bed?" John asked. "I'll wait."

Turning back around, the younger man said nothing, but lowered his eyes and blushed slightly.

"It is part of her job, you know."

"I know that," Nick mumbled, keeping his eyes averted.

What John didn't know, was that Nick had been upstairs with Kristy, more than once. But she never charged him and Nick wasn't one to brag about such things. Besides, what Nick did on his own time was none of John's business.

Kristy returned with two large mugs of beer and set them on the table. She ran a lingering hand up Nick's arm as she walked away. Seeing this John rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"I just don't understand you," he said.

"My father is a local judge, you know," Nick reminded the older man.

"I know, I know, but still... Damn, if I had a pretty, little thing like that flirting with me, father or no father..." His voice trailed off, his expression more than making his meaning clear.

Nick smiled, but simply reached for his beer. The two men sat drinking for a couple of hours, waiting for more men to trickle into the saloon. They chatted with several of these new arrivals, but no one had anymore information, until Jake Spencer, another rancher wandered into the saloon.

"Well now, actually I found one of my dogs in that same shape," Jake said, when the two Rangers asked him about his cattle.

"How long ago?" Nick asked.

"It was just a couple days ago."

"And its face had been peeled off?"

"Yeah, it was the damnedest thing I ever saw. I just figured it was some kid looking for trouble. You know how some them can be. That or Indians. I mean, they're just savages. Who knows why they do anything."

"Do you still have the dog's body? Can we see it?" Nick asked.

"Well, hell no, I buried it! It was just a dog," Jake said, looking at the young Ranger as if he was insane.

"Oh, right," Nick said quickly.

They remained for a couple more hours, but when no one else came forward with information, John suggested they leave. It was late afternoon when they finally emerged back into the Texas sunshine.

"What now?" Nick asked.

"All that beer's made me hungry," John commented, rubbing his belly. "I think maybe we should head on back to your folk's ranch. As you said, your father's a judge. He's in touch with what's going on around town. He might've heard of something and just didn't think to mention it before."

"Yeah, and maybe my mother made some of her sweet potato pie," Nick commented suspiciously.

"Well, now, that would be a stroke of luck," John said in mock surprise. "You do know how I love your Ma's sweet potato pie."

Nick had always marveled at John's ability to divine exactly when it was that Jillian Stokes made her famous sweet potato pie, but somehow the elder Ranger always knew. And he was not wrong this time either. As usual, the pie was excellent, as was the rest of the meal.

During dinner, they questioned Bill Stokes, as well as Nick's older brother, Patrick, who also lived at the ranch. Patrick was an attorney in town and neither he, nor the judge had heard any reports of skinned animals being found.

"I have to ask, what do you two plan to do, if you do manage to find this person?" Bill asked.

"Make him pay for the cow," John said with a dismissive shrug.

Noting that his son was keeping his eyes averted, Bill said, "Nick..."

At last the young man looked up. "I just want to know who he is, so I can keep an eye on him."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think he's done yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Dad, you didn't see that cow. He didn't just kill it. He mutilated it. I have to think that it would take an awful lot of anger, to make someone do something like that. If the butcher, whoever he is, is that angry, why would he necessarily stop with just killing a dog and a cow?

"Think about it, you've said yourself that you tend to see the same angry, violent men in your courtroom. These are the kinds of men who beat their animals, their children, their wives. It's all the same to them. What would make this guy any different?"

With a sigh, Bill sat back in his chair and regarded his youngest son gravely. The young man had always had a big heart and it was something that had always worried Bill when Nick had announced that he was joining the Rangers.

"Yes, Nick, that's true, but so far, none of those men have actually crossed the line to murder, just drunken brawls or minor acts of vandalism. And whether I like it or not, how a man disciplines his wife and children, is his business, not the law's. I think you're making a very big assumption that just because this man killed an animal, he's also going to kill a human."

"I'm not necessarily saying that he will kill a human. I just want to be able to keep an eye on him, just in case."

It was after dark by the time dinner was over and everyone went to bed shortly afterward. The Stokes' had a large house. They'd had seven children, although mostly girls, who were now married and living with their husbands. Only Patrick and his wife remained living at the house. So, there were plenty of spare bedrooms.

It was quite early the next morning, while it was still dark outside, that loud pounding on the front door woke the entire household. Nick was just emerging from his bedroom, still tucking his hastily donned shirt into his trousers, and he saw his father's back retreating down the hall, towards the front of the house. Nick followed. He could hear John and Patrick emerging from their rooms behind him.

By the time the younger men had reached the front of the house, Bill had already opened the door to admit Matt Haskins, the deputy, who appeared shaken and slightly out of breath. After politely acknowledging the judge, Haskins turned his attention to Nick and John.

"Mr. Stokes, Mr. Preston, Sheriff Willoughby sent me. He figured you'd be here. We found a dead body in town. He said you'd want to see it."

The two Rangers glanced at each other for a moment, before John said, "Ride on ahead and tell him we'll be there as quick as we can."

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The pool of blood beneath the body looked thick and black in the glow of the bull's eye lantern. There was no question that the woman had been killed right there in the yard behind the train depot. One of the customers of the Whistle Stop had found her, when he'd stepped behind the depot to take a discreet piss.

Just like the dog and the cow previously, her throat had been slit and her face peeled away. Although this time, the killer had taken the skin with him. The killer had also added one more indignity. The woman's skirts were hiked up around her waist and her genitals had also been viciously slashed.

"Do we know who she is?" John asked quietly.

"With no face, there's no way to know who she is," Willoughby answered.

The woman's clothing was fairly nondescript, a plain black skirt paired with a white blouse. Most likely, almost every woman in the Dallas area owned similar garments. This woman could be any one of them or someone from out of town.

Staring down at the body, Nick felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He'd seen dead bodies before, even dead women, but this was beyond everything else. This was definitely worse than the cow. He swallowed with some difficulty and tried to block out the sounds of Deputy Haskins vomiting in the bushes behind him. A slight glint of something metallic, lying on the ground near the body, caught his attention and he knelt down to see what it was.

It was a small, plain, gold cross on a delicate gold chain. The chain had obviously been cut when the killer slit the woman's throat. A sudden flash of memory made Nick's stomach clench and his blood run cold. He knew this necklace.

"It's Kristy Hopkins," he said, his voice choked.

"What? How do you know?" John asked.

Nick held the necklace out for his partner to see. "She told me her mother gave it to her, just before she died. Kristy always wore it. She never took it off."

Sheriff Willoughby turned to his deputy, who had finally gotten his stomach under control. "Matt, go into the saloon. See if anybody can find Kristy."

"Yes sir," the boy said and disappeared into the night.

"It's her," Nick said, with terrible certainty. He felt numb now, as if all of his emotions had drained away, leaving him an empty husk. He turned to look up at John. "Now, can we take photographs?"

John bit his lip for a moment then said, "Yeah, that's a good idea." He turned to one of the many bystanders. "Carl, go wake up Arthur Hayes. Tell him I sent you. Tell him to get his hide down here and bring his photographic equipment with him."

It was nearly twenty minutes later before Haskins returned with Emma Swanlee. She was another one of the saloon's working girls.

"Where's Kristy?" Emma demanded. "Is she alright?"

"Matt, keep her back!" Willoughby barked. "Don't let her see this."

Nick stood and moved through the growing crowd, to stand in front of the distraught woman. He held the necklace out for her to see. Glancing at it, the woman's hand flew to her mouth.

"It's Kristy's," Emma whispered. She didn't know what was going on, but she knew it was bad.

"I'm sorry, Emma," Nick said softly. "Kristy's dead."

The young Ranger held the woman while she cried on his shoulder and stared blankly into space. He felt as if his soul had been ripped out of his body. He hadn't realized just how much he'd cared for the young saloon girl until now, when it was too late.

Arthur Hayes, the town's photographer, arrived shortly after this and it took some time for John to bully the timid little man into photographing the gruesome scene. Afterward, the Ranger told the man to return to his studio and immediately print the photos out.

It wasn't until late morning that Kristy's body was removed by the undertaker and taken to his parlor. Nick had just stood in the background the entire time, watching the proceedings in a sort of detached daze. Doc Cauldwell had given Emma a dose of laudanum and escorted her back into the saloon.

When the body was finally gone and the gawkers had drifted away, John moved to stand beside Nick. The two men stood for a long moment, staring at the still bloody patch of grass.

At last, John said, "Come on, I don't know about you, but I need a drink."

"Yeah," Nick mumbled and followed his partner into the saloon.

It seemed strange when Tess, another of the working girls, brought them the bottle of whiskey they had ordered. Kristy had been the only one who waited on Nick and John before. The two men had downed nearly half the bottle before either finally spoke.

"You okay, Kid?" John asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Nick answered, his voice sounding unusually dull.

The other man nodded, although he knew perfectly well that his young partner was far from 'fine'.

"Listen, Nick, why don't you head on back to your folk's ranch. Ted and I will handle this."

The younger man seemed to think about this for a moment, before he said, "Yeah, okay. I'll do that. Thanks, John."

Nick rose from the table a bit unsteadily and left the saloon. But he didn't head back to the Stokes Ranch. Instead, he went to the undertaker's parlor.

Sam Foster, the undertaker, was a small, wiry man in his early sixties. He was extremely pale and bald, with a soft, gentle voice. He had large, watery blue eyes, that he rarely seemed to blink and Nick found the man thoroughly creepy. When the Ranger asked to see the body, Foster simply pointed to the plain, pine box laid out on his work table.

Nick moved closer to it and ran his hands lightly over the rough, unfinished surface. "What's going to happen to her?" he asked, still not taking his eyes off the box.

"She'll be buried in the field, just outside of town."

"Not the churchyard?" Nick asked, turning to face the small man.

"Well, generally, for a woman of her 'occupation' to be buried in the churchyard, Rev. Whitehall prefers for there to be a 'donation' to the church, as a sort of compensation for the extra cleansing of sins."

"You mean a bribe?" Nick asked in disgust.

The undertaker gave a prim little shrug and said, "Unfortunately, Miss Hopkins has no relations to provide this 'donation' and apparently none of her friends have come forward to provide it either."

Nick dug into the pockets of his trousers and produced several coins and a couple of bank notes. He thrust them at the undertaker.

"Is this enough?" Nick asked harshly.

"Uh, yes, I'm sure that would be plenty."

"Good. See to it that she's given a proper burial, in the churchyard, with a grave marker."

"As you wish."

Over the next few days, the investigation of Kristy Hopkins' death ground to a standstill. For the most part, the area locals could account for their whereabouts that night and the out-of-towners had already left. John did learn from a couple of the Whistle Stop's regulars that a very tall man in expensive clothes had been seen in the saloon earlier that night talking to the girl. They had left the saloon together. Unfortunately this same man had also been seen boarding a northeast-bound train later that night.

"So, why aren't we going after him?" Nick demanded, when he'd heard this news.

"Nick, that train was headed to Arkansas," John said. "We have no jurisdiction there. We don't even know that he's our man."

The younger man gave a frustrated sigh and downed his shot of whiskey in one gulp. He and John were seated at their usual table in the Whistle Stop. They had been spending quite a bit of time there as of late. John had sent a telegram to Austen, explaining the situation, so they weren't expected back any time soon. As they continued to drink in silence, they heard the distinct rumble of an arriving train. The glasses on the table shook slightly with the vibrations of the massive machine.

A short time later, several men began filing into the saloon. They had obviously just arrived on the train. Two of them sat down at the table next to John and Nick's. These two men were talking loudly and they called out for a bottle of whiskey. Mary, the new girl who had replaced Kristy, was a skinny, nervous girl and she quickly scurried over to the table with a bottle and a couple of glasses.

Nick listened numbly as the two out-of-towners continued to talk loudly. It quickly became clear that they had come from further east, but had passed through Arkansas on their way to Texas. When their conversation turned to a gruesome murder that had occurred in Little Rock while they had been staying there, Nick's interest was piqued.

He turned to the two men and began questioning them. He learned that a local prostitute had been murdered in a particularly disturbing way. Her throat had been slit and her face peeled off. She had also been slashed "elsewhere".

"'Don't know that he's our man', huh?" Nick said, after the two easterners had left to find rooms for the night. "Well, now we do know he's our man and now we know where he is, Arkansas."

"Nick, settle down, there ain't nothin' we can do about it. As I said, we have no jurisdiction in Arkansas. Even if we found him, we can't arrest him."

"Who said anything about arresting him?"

"Nick..."

"Alright, alright, telegraph the U.S. Marshals. Have them track him down."

"Nick, Son, I know Kristy was your friend, but the trail's cold by now and it'll be even colder by the time the Marshals get involved, if they get involved. I gotta say it, I really don't think the Marshals are going to put a whole lot of effort into tracking down the killer of a..."

"Whore?" Nick finished for the other man, his voice bitter.

John shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, Son, but you're just going to have to let this go."

"No. I'm sorry, John, but I just can't do that. Every time I close my eyes, I see her sweet smile and I..." Nick stood up from the table. "I'm going to Arkansas, John, with or without you."

"Nick, you are a Texas Ranger and, as your superior, I am ordering you not to do that."

"I'm sorry, John," the younger man said, pulling the silver star off his shirt front and dropping it onto the table. "This is something I have to do."

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

11/30/06

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 2

New York University, Biology Department, New York City, late October, the same year.

"Alright, who can tell me what this it?" Gil asked, setting the large, glass tank on the wooden pedestal, so that it would be more visible to all the young men gathered in the small lecture room. The large, hairy spider inside the tank crept slowly around its confines, oblivious to its audience.

After a long silence, a voice from the back of the room called out, "It's a tarantula."

"Yes. Can anyone be more specific? Pay close attention to the coloration on the legs."

Looking around the room, at the assembled faces, Gil saw only blank expressions and he sighed. He glanced over at the clock on the back wall. It was almost noon. That was the problem with teaching late morning classes. The students were more focused on their stomachs than their studies.

"Alright, Gentlemen, we're done for the day," Gil said. "You're dismissed and since it's Friday, I'll be generous and not assign any extra reading, although I do expect you all to be better prepared for Monday's lecture."

He tried to ignore the collective sigh of relief that was almost, but not quite, drowned out by the sound of scraping chairs as the young men got to their feet and filed out of the room. As they did, Gil removed the spider's tank from the pedestal and returned it to its home on one of the many wooden shelves that lined the perimeter of the room. These shelves were filled with jars of formaldehyde, in which a variety of dead creatures floated. There were a few other live creatures as well. These were mostly unusual and rare members of the insect world, as Entomology was Gil's specialty.

Returning to his desk, Gil began packing his papers and books into his briefcase. He was interrupted by the arrival of Conrad Ecklie, the head of the Biology Department. After waiting for the last of the students to depart, Ecklie came to stand beside Gil's desk.

"Conrad, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Gil asked with forced cheerfulness.

He and the department head generally did not get along. Conrad Ecklie was a born bureaucrat, who was far more interested in publishing rights and the image of the department, than in the actual education of the paying students. Gil and Conrad had butted heads on a variety of subjects on many occasions.

"I'm just here to remind you of the weekly department meeting this evening. I don't want you to forget about this one, as you did the last three," Ecklie said pointedly.

"Oh, uh, too late, I'm afraid, I did forget about it and I've already made plans for the evening. I'm going to the theater with my friend Capt. Brass, of the Metropolitan Police."

"The theater? Couldn't the two of you go on another night?"

"No, I'm afraid not. This is the last evening of this performance and Capt. Brass is a very busy man."

Ecklie gave a frustrated sigh. He was long accustomed to Grissom's subtle acts of insubordination. Unfortunately there was very little he could do about it. Gil Grissom was in fact, quite a wealthy man. He'd inherited his fortune from his father, who'd been in the import business. Grissom did not need this job, so the threat of termination didn't hold much weight. Hell, it was an empty threat and Grissom knew it. Gil Grissom was also considered quite an authority in his area of expertise, Entomology, and the university was quite privileged to have him. The dean of the university would never allow Ecklie to fire Gil, so Ecklie was stuck with him.

"So, how are you coming along with grading those mid-term papers?" Ecklie asked, unable to resist a parting dig. "They were supposed to be completed last week."

"Oh, yes, I'll have to check with Sara. She was working on them."

"Sara? You let your housekeeper grade your students' papers?"

"Sara is not my housekeeper. Mrs. Dobbins is my housekeeper. Sara is one of my assistants."

"'Assistant'? Is that what they call it these days?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come now, she's a girl and one you found living in an insane asylum, if memory serves me correctly. She lives with you in your house. Oh yes, and with Greg and Warrick, your two other 'assistants'. What else am I supposed to think? Nice choice of assistants, by the way, an insane girl, a juvenile delinquent, and a Negro."

"None of which is any of your business," Gil said coldly. "I'm sure she's finished grading the papers. She's quite efficient. I'll have Greg deliver them to you this afternoon. Good day, Ecklie."

Normally at this time, Gil would go to his office to do paperwork for a few hours and to be available to his students, if they needed any help with their coursework. But after his exchange with Ecklie, he was in no mood to even remain in the same building with the man. He decided to head on home for the day.

Gil generally walked to and from his lectures each day. He only lived on the far side of Washington Square Park from the university and he enjoyed the fresh air and exercise. Today, he found that the brisk October wind and quick pace of his walk were helping to calm his agitated nerves. It never ceased to amaze him that someone as petty-minded and vindictive as Conrad Ecklie could rise to the level of department head. Who was Ecklie to criticize Gil's admittedly unorthodox household?

Belatedly Gil realized that he owed his friend Catherine a thank you. It had been she who had strongly suggested that he hire an older female housekeeper and arrange for her to live in the house full time. Gil didn't normally employ servants, preferring to keep his own house. But without another woman's presence in the house to provide some chaperonage for Sara, how much more blatant could Ecklie have been with his distasteful innuendos? He might have even been so bold as to make such statements to Sara herself. Unfortunately, Ecklie did occasionally come to Gil's house.

Yes, Gil definitely owed Catherine a thank you. She was much more aware of society's mores than he was, for although technically his family wealth made him a member of high society, Gil generally ignored them, preferring his studies, his bugs and his unusual associates. Catherine herself was another example of his questionable choices in friends. For, although her father, Sam Braun, was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in New York, as his illegitimate daughter, she was only marginally accepted by society. The fact that she was also an actress did not help matters. It was all well and good for members of society to attend the theater, but it was another matter all together to actually associate with the people who trod the stage.

Capt. Brass was also one of Gil's odd friendships. Members of high society generally did not choose to be seen in the company of police officers, even high ranking ones. The fact that Theodore Roosevelt, who came from a very good family, was the current Police Commissioner was helping to change this attitude, but it was a slow process.

Gil and Jim Brass had first encountered each other when the detective, then still a lieutenant, had come to the entomologist for help with a case. Jim had been investigating the theft of several very rare butterflies from a very wealthy collector. The detective had sought Gil's help in identifying who in the city might have even understood the value of the insects, let alone would covet them enough to steal them. Gil had proven most helpful in solving the case and he and the detective had struck up an odd friendship. Jim now frequently consulted with Gil on his more tricky cases.

Arriving on his street, Gil turned and headed in the direction of his house. As he did, he passed Mrs. Ferndale and her daughter. The Ferndale's lived two houses down from Gil. He touched the brim of his hat and gave a slight bow to the two women as he passed them. They both nodded in acknowledgement and continued on their way. He could hear them whispering almost as soon as his back was to them.

He sighed. He got this quite a bit. He was the neighborhood eccentric. Most of his neighbors tolerated him because of his wealth and position, but they most certainly did not approve of the things he did. Some of them could forgive the fact that he allowed Sara and Greg to come and go via the front entrance of the house, rather than the back, servants' entrance, as their positions in the household were somewhat ambiguous. But Gil didn't stop there. He also allowed Warrick, a Negro, to come and go through the front door as well and this was downright scandalous. Some of his neighbors refused to speak to him altogether.

Approaching the three-story, brownstone row house that he'd inherited from his parents, Gil felt his spirits lift. His house was his refuge, his sanctuary from the narrow minds and disapproving stares of the rest of the world. He always felt so much better here than anywhere else, including his classroom.

Walking up the front steps, he opened the door and stepped into the large foyer. It always amazed him how much bigger the house looked on the inside, than it did on the outside. Immediately inside the door, he found Greg and Warrick on their hands and knees on the marble floor, searching for something. The two young men were so engrossed in this activity that they hadn't even noticed Gil's arrival.

"Gentlemen, did you lose something?" he asked, sliding his overcoat off and hanging it in the closet, just to the right of the door. He set his briefcase on the floor.

Both young men looked up guiltily. "Grissom, you're home early," Greg said. The boy's eyes were wide with ill-feigned innocence.

"Yes, I am. What are you two doing?" Gil asked suspiciously.

"We were just, uh... Warrick?" Greg asked, turning to his older companion.

With a wry smile, the other man confessed, "We were racing your cockroaches and they got away from us."

"My hissing cockroaches from Madagascar?"

"Yeah."

"Do you two have any idea how difficult those were to obtain?"

"Yeah, we do, but don't worry. We'll find them. They must still be in the house somewhere. How far could they have gone?"

"Well, make sure that you do find them. They were very expen-."

Gil's words were cut off by a scream coming from the direction of the kitchen, at the back of the house. This was followed closely by the sound of breaking china.

"Good news, I think Mrs. Dobbins already found them," Greg said, with a smile.

Gil gave a small groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. It appeared that he was going to have to hire yet another housekeeper. This would be the third one this month. Just because he now recognized the need to have a housekeeper, didn't mean that he any luck keeping them around. So often, they just couldn't seem to adapt to the eccentricities of the household. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps he should have stayed at work after all.

"I'll just go and save Mrs. Dobbins," Greg mumbled and quickly fled down the hall.

"I'll just go help him," Warrick said and followed after the youth.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was almost 7:00 and well after dark, when the hansom cab pulled up and came to a stop in front of Gil Grissom's brownstone. A man in his middle years, with thinning, brown hair and dressed in evening kit, climbed out of the small carriage. He paused long enough to tell the driver to wait then headed up the walk to knock on the front door. After what seemed like an unusually long time, the door was opened to reveal a tall, pretty, young woman with dark hair.

"Good evening, Capt. Brass," the girl said, smiling and opening the door wider to allow the police inspector to enter the house.

"And good evening to you, Miss Sidle. Where's Mrs. Dobbins? Shouldn't she be answering the door?" Jim asked.

"She gave her notice and left earlier this afternoon."

"You didn't put the tarantula in her bed, like you did to Mrs. Harris, did you?"

"No, this was entirely Greg and Warrick's doing. And Mrs. Harris got what she deserved. She called Warrick a very rude name."

"So, what happened with Mrs. Dobbins? No, wait, don't tell me. I'm sure Grissom will tell me all about it on the way to the theater. Where is he anyway? We're running late and I have a cab waiting. And if we're late for the performance, Catherine will be furious."

"We were engrossed in one of his experiments and lost track of the time. He only just went upstairs to change his clothes a few minutes ago, but I'll go up and let him know that you're here," Sara said, starting toward the stairs.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs when she saw Gil coming down, still struggling with his white bow tie. "Sara, can you do something with this?" he asked as he reached her.

While Sara fixed Gil's tie, Greg and Warrick wandered into the foyer. Seeing both Grissom and Brass dressed formally, Greg's face lit up.

"Are you two leaving now? Do you want me to drive you? It'll only take me a minute to hitch up the horse to the carriage," he asked eagerly.

"Oh, no, that's not necessary, Greg," Jim said quickly. "I've already got a cab waiting out front."

"And we're already running very late," Gil added. "If we miss Catherine's performance, she'll never forgive us."

The boy's face fell. "You don't trust me, do you? I thought I was supposed to be your groom, but you never let me drive you anywhere. Alright, yes, I almost wrecked the carriage that one time, but I've gotten much better since then, haven't I, Warrick?"

"Uh, yeah, you've gotten better, but I think you could still use a little more practice," the young man said tactfully.

"Didn't I assign some reading for you, anyway?" Gil asked, pulling on his overcoat.

"That "Origin of Species" book? I read it."

"All of it?" Gil asked, somewhat impressed.

He'd only asked the boy to read the book the night before. He'd assigned his Beginning Biology students to read it at the start of term and most them still hadn't even opened it. Despite his rather spotty formal education, Greg was proving to be a surprisingly eager and diligent student, far more eager than the young men who were actually paying Gil to teach them.

"Yeah."

"What did you think of it?"

"Well, I-."

"Gil!" Jim interrupted. "The cab is waiting..."

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. We'll talk about the book later, Greg. In the meantime, I'm sure Sara or Warrick could find you something else to read."

"Hey, tell Catherine 'good luck' for me," Warrick said as the two men started out the door.

"I will and don't wait up," Gil said, over his shoulder. "We may not be back until late."

"Well, we're not going to be out too late," Jim said, as he and Gil walked to the cab. "I have to go back to the station after the play."

"You're going back in to work, on a Friday night?" Gil asked. "I'm impressed. Are you working on an interesting case?"

Jim told the driver their destination and the two men climbed into the small carriage and settled back in the leather bench seat. The driver gave the reigns a flick and the horse set off at a brisk trot.

"No, unfortunately there's no interesting case, just plenty of paperwork," Jim said, picking up the conversation again. "Now, you know, I have all the respect in the world for Roosevelt and the work he's doing to clean up the corruption in the department, but these days we have to document every little thing we do. It's almost ridiculous. I've never had to write so many reports in my entire career!"

Gil smiled knowingly. "Welcome to the wonderful world of bureaucracy, Jim."

The ride to the theater was uneventful and they made good time, despite the heavier Friday night traffic. They even arrived at the theater with enough time for a quick visit back stage, to wish Catherine luck.

The Renaissance Theater, so named for its owner's inclination toward Shakespeare productions, was a small playhouse, located a couple of streets over from Broadway and the other, larger theaters. But the company had a solid reputation in the theatrical world for their strong, albeit low-budget, performances.

The company had been started several years ago, by Eddie Willows, Catherine's late husband, who had quickly recognized his young wife's burgeoning talent and had wisely centered the company on her. Unfortunately Eddie enjoyed the good life, often more so than his income could support. He also had a chronic wandering eye and a taste for expensive mistresses. As a result, despite its modest successes, the company was perpetually plagued by financial woes.

When Eddie Willows abruptly died in a suspicious carriage accident, Gil and many others, strongly suspected that Sam Braun may have played some part in his philandering son-in-law's untimely death. Catherine flatly refused to believe this and it was true that Eddie owed money to several very dangerous men, besides Sam Braun. No arrest was ever made in the case and the theater passed into Catherine's more fiscally responsible hands.

Gil was always amazed by Catherine's ability to rationalize her father's darker side and the shadier aspects of his business dealings. She knew perfectly well that Sam owned and operated several illegal and semi-legal gaming houses throughout the city, some more 'respectable' than others. In Catherine's youth, she had worked in some of these houses and it had been during this time that she'd met and married Eddie Willows. And much later, where she'd met Warrick Brown, then newly arrived in the city from parts further south.

Catherine had struck up an unlikely friendship with the young Negro and had seen him falling further and further into debt. Luckily for Warrick, she had happened to be on hand the night that Walt Braun, the boss of the gaming house, who was also Sam's youngest son and Catherine's half-brother, had called in his markers. Warrick, of course, hadn't been able to pay his debts. So, Walt had ordered his boys to 'deal' with the young man.

Remembering her wealthy friend, Gil Grissom, whom she had met at the theater, Catherine had run the nearly three miles to his house. By the time the two of them had arrived back at the gaming house, one of the more 'respectable' ones, the men had taken Warrick out back to the alley and had begun beating him. Gil intervened and paid off the young man's debts.

After recovering from his injuries at Gil's house, Warrick had insisted on paying the older back. That was how Warrick had come to live in the large attic area of Gil's house, running errands and working as a handyman of sorts.

But despite knowing full well that Walt Braun barely managed to draw breath without his father's express instructions, Catherine refused to even consider that Sam was in any way responsible for Warrick's beating. She still insisted that Sam hadn't even been present at the time and it had all been Walt's doing. Personally, Gil believed that Sam had found out about Catherine's friendship with the young Negro, hadn't liked it and had taken steps to end it. Why else had Walt Braun so abruptly called in his markers?

As Gil and Jim entered the theater through the back stage entrance, Gil's mind returned to the present. No one said anything to them, as the two men made their way towards Catherine's dressing room. The members of the company were long accustomed to their presence back stage. Jim knocked on the dressing room door.

They heard Catherine's muffled voice, calling for them to enter. "There you are!" she cried out as they stepped into the small, cramped changing room. "I was beginning to think you two weren't going to show."

"And miss your performance as Lady Gertrude in my favorite Shakespeare play 'Hamlet'? Never," Gil said. "I was just running a little late, as usual. Oh, by the way, I need you to recommend another housekeeper for me. Mrs. Dobbins gave her notice this afternoon."

"What happened this time?"

"It's a long story."

"Aren't they all? Please, tell me it didn't involve the tarantula again."

"No, hissing cockroaches, but it was an accident this time."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "I'll see what I can do, but you're starting to get a reputation. Most of the women flatly refuse the job once they hear your name. These women do talk to each other, you know."

As she spoke, the actress turned her attention back to the mirror she was sitting in front of and adjusted her costume. She was wearing a long gown of deep burgundy velvet cut in a medieval style. The dark color of the dress set off her red-gold hair beautifully and the simple cut was quite becoming on her slim figure. She picked up a small, black grease pencil and began touching up the make-up around her eyes.

Another knock drew everyone's attention to the still-open doorway, where a young woman with dark hair was standing. She was dressed similarly to Catherine, except her dress was white.

"Cath, the curtain's going up in 15 minutes," the girl said.

"Thank you, I'll be right there. Jim, Gil, you remember my friend Stephanie Watson, don't you? She's going to be our Ophelia tonight. She's wonderful."

"Yes, of course we remember her," Jim said. "It's very nice to see you again Miss Watson."

"It's nice to see you gentlemen again as well. I do hope you enjoy the performance."

"I'm sure we will," Gil said. "But we should go find our seats and leave you ladies to finish getting ready. Good luck to you. Oh, and Catherine, Warrick asked me to wish you luck as well."

"Oh, that's sweet. Thank him for me, won't you?"

The performance was, of course, a success and at the end of the play, Gil and Jim each went their separate ways. The police headquarters wasn't far from the theater, which was located in a modest, but reasonably safe area, so Jim just walked back to work, while Gil got a cab.

Since it was still fairly early when he returned to the house, Gil and Greg were able to spend some time discussing Darwin's book. Sara and Warrick joined in with the discussion whenever they could get a word in. It was quite late before everyone was ready to go to bed and as they were about to head off to their respective rooms, they were interrupted by a loud knock on the front door.

Opening the door, Gil found a young beat cop standing on his front steps. The young man quickly removed his hat and said, "I'm so sorry to disturb you so late at night, Dr. Grissom, but Capt. Brass sent me to fetch you. There's been a murder at the Renaissance Theater. He said you'd want to see the body. I don't know why he thought that, it's a pretty gruesome sight. The body's been mutilated something terrible, but maybe, with you being a doctor and all, he thought you might be interested. Are you a medical examiner?"

"No, I'm an entomologist."

"Is that something like a medical examiner?" the young man asked in some confusion.

"Yes, it is," Gil said, beginning to lose his patience. "Did you come in a carriage?"

"Oh, yes, sir, ready when you are."

Telling the others where he was going, Gil grabbed his hat and coat and followed the young officer out to the police wagon sitting out in front of his house. This late at night, there was almost no traffic and they made it to the theater and in almost no time at all. Climbing out of the wagon, Gil found Jim waiting for him in the alley behind the theater. The detective looked very serious and business-like. Gil felt his stomach clench.

"Is Catherine alright?" he demanded.

"Catherine's fine," Jim said, holding up a restraining hand. "She's inside."

Gil breathed a sigh of relief. "Then what is it? Why did you drag me down here?"

Jim stepped to one side and gestured to something further down the alley. The detective fell into step beside the entomologist as he started toward the unidentified shape lying on the ground.

The blood seemed to be everywhere and much of it still glistened wetly in the glow of the lanterns the police had set up around the body. The woman's face, or the place where her face should have been, was nothing more than bloody bone. The skin had been completely peeled away. Her still-intact eyes stared out grotesquely from this ruin and her exposed teeth leered in a hideous parody of a grin. The woman's body had been further slashed in other, more delicate areas as well.

"My God..." Gil whispered, gazing in horror at the scene. "What happened here? Do you have any idea who she is?"

"Catherine was the one who discovered the body and she insists that it's Stephanie Watson."

Gil winced at this news. "How is she?"

"As well as can be expected for having just found her best friend murdered and mutilated."

"What makes her so sure that it's Miss Watson?"

"The clothing mostly. Apparently, Catherine spoke to the girl just before she left the theater, to head home, and she took note of the girl's dress. She said it was new and Catherine complimented her on it."

"That's a rather vague identification," Gil said, frowning.

"Well, Catherine seemed very certain, but just in case, I've already sent a beat cop to Miss Watson's flat, to see if she's at home. If not, I understand that she shares the flat with two other girls from the theater company, so maybe they can tell us something. In the meantime, I think we can go on the assumption that it is Miss Watson. Do you want to go and talk to Catherine?"

Gil gave another slight wince. "No, let's give her a few more minutes. I want a closer look at the body for now."

The two men crouched down beside the body, careful not to disturb the blood pools. Gil glanced around him.

"Did anyone find the skin that was peeled away?" he asked.

"No, I guess we can assume the killer took it with him."

"Did you have someone take photographs?"

"Yes, I know how much you like that. The officer wasn't too pleased about it, but they're starting to get used to my unusual requests."

"Good," Gil said.

Spying something on the ground a few feet away, he stood and went to investigate. He found a bloody footprint, a rather large footprint.

"It appears the killer may have stepped in the blood pool," he said. "Make sure you have your man take a photograph of this."

Jim gestured to the officer with the camera and instructed him to photograph the footprint. While the detective did this, Gil wandered around the scene. Moving further down the alley, he paused near the doorway of the rear entrance to the building next door to the theater. It was a small restaurant that would have closed several hours ago. Glancing around at the ground, he spotted something and called out to Jim. the stocky detective jogged over to join the entomologist.

"What did you find?" the captain asked, seeing the other man stoop down and pick something up from the ground.

"The stub of a cigar," Gil said, holding the item in question out to his friend.

Jim accepted the cigar and brought it to his nose for a quick sniff. "It smells like a Cuban. That's a little expensive for this neighborhood. I doubt anyone who lives or works around here would have dropped it. You're thinking the killer may have dropped it?"

"Well, look at this." Gil gestured for the other man to stand beside him in the doorway of the closed restaurant. "You can easily see the rear stage entrance to the theater from here, but if the killer was standing here in the doorway, it's doubtful that Miss Watson would have seen him, until it was too late."

"So, you think the killer might have been waiting and watching for Miss Watson in particular?"

"It's very possible," Gil said grimly. "I think we need to talk to Catherine now."

They found Catherine in her dressing room, staring blankly at her reflection in her mirror. Jim had ordered one of the officers to stay with her and now he sent the man outside, as he and Gil entered the small room. Catherine's eyes were still red from her recent crying, but she was calm and composed now.

After both men expressed their condolences to her for her loss, Gil asked, "Are you feeling up to answering some questions?"

"Yes, I want to help in any way I can to catch the bastard who did this," she said fiercely.

Gil nodded approvingly. Catherine Willows was a strong woman. She'd led an unconventional life and had seen many things that would have shocked most respectable women. She may have been dealt a hard blow tonight, but she was a fighter. She would recover and she would get up swinging.

"Catherine, after you said good night to Miss Watson, did you hear anything unusual?" Jim asked.

"No, I didn't hear anything at all. If I'd heard her cry out, I would've tried to help her. Why didn't she scream?"

"We have reason to believe that Miss Watson's attacker approached her from behind. I doubt she ever had the chance to scream," Gil said. "How much time had elapsed between when Miss Watson left and you found the body?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe a half hour."

"So, the killer must have worked very quickly. Which means, he knew exactly what he was going to do to the body all along."

"What are you getting at?" Jim asked.

"Well, I was originally thinking that it must have taken a great deal of anger to do those things to a body. So, I assumed that it was a rage killing, that the mutilation was done on the spur of the moment. But it takes a while to work yourself up to that level of rage. Our man didn't have the time for that."

"Well, we suspect that he'd been watching the theater. Maybe he worked himself up into a rage while he was waiting. Some people really hate to be kept waiting," Jim suggested dryly.

"Perhaps," Gil conceded, "but this whole scenario has a... 'practiced' feel about it, as if our man has done this before and is very comfortable with it. The attack was too quick, the damage too precise. Have you heard of any other murders similar to this one?"

"No," Jim said immediately. "I definitely would have remembered it."

"Wait a minute, you think this man might have been watching the theater?" Catherine asked, looking slightly alarmed.

"Yes, we think he may have been waiting outside specifically for Miss Watson," Gil said. "Have you noticed anyone loitering around the theater in the past few days?"

"No, not that I can think of."

"Did Miss Watson have any enemies, a jilted suitor or perhaps a rival here in the company?"

"No, Stephanie didn't have a beau and we're a small company, if she'd been having a problem with someone, I would have seen it and dealt with it."

"Is it possible that she might've had a beau that you didn't know about?" Jim asked.

"No," Catherine said emphatically. "She and I were like sisters. If she'd had a beau, she would've told me."

Having exhausted their questions for Catherine for the time being, the two men led her out of the building through the front door, so she wouldn't have to walk past the body again. Jim arranged for one of the officers to escort her home and after seeing them off, he and Gil returned to the crime scene, where they found the remaining two officers Jim had left to guard the body, arguing with another man in a rumpled suit. This man had a camera, which the officers were attempting to confiscate.

Spying the captain, one of the officers called out, "Sir, we caught this man trying to photograph the body."

"Who the hell are you?" Jim demanded.

"My name is Tommy Conlin and I work for The New York Chronicle. I'm just trying to do my job." The man spoke with a heavy and distinct Irish accent.

"How did you know about this crime scene?"

"Well, I didn't, exactly. Look, I just hang around outside the police station and follow the cops as they leave. In this particular case, I followed the coroner's wagon," Conlin said, gesturing to the long, black wagon that had pulled into the alley. Two men in dirty white coats were loading the sheet-wrapped body into the back of the wagon.

Jim was familiar with The New York Chronicle. It was a rag, one not fit for wrapping fish in. It was one of the worst examples of yellow journalism he had ever read. No other newspaper would be interested in running a story about the brutal murder of an unknown actress. But The Chronicle specialized in grisly stories with graphic details. Jim couldn't imagine the type of people who actually enjoyed reading these articles. Regardless, he had no intention of telling this man anything or of letting him get a single photograph. He turned to one of the officers.

"Johnny, you and Bob can go now. Take Mr. Conlin, here, with you. You can let him go once you get back to police headquarters."

"Yes sir," the officer addressed as Johnny said. "You heard the man, let's go."

As the two officers started to drag the hapless reporter away, the man began protesting loudly, shouting at the top of his lungs about the freedom of the press and other nonsense. Jim ignored this and turned his attention back to the coroner's men, who were just closing up their wagon and getting ready to depart.

"Well, there's no point in staying here," Jim said. "I have a police wagon. Do you want a ride home?"

"Yes, please," Gil said, sounding unusually subued.

The ride back to Gil's house was very quiet. Neither man spoke the entire time, each preoccupied with his own thoughts.

"I'll try and get Doc Robbins to take a look at the body some time tomorrow afternoon. Do you want to be there?" Jim finally asked, as he stopped the wagon in front of the brownstone.

"Yes, please."

"Alright, I'll send someone over to get you. In the meantime, try and get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day."

To be continued...


	3. Chapter 3

12/15/06

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 3

It was well after noon when Gil and Jim arrived at the city morgue, which was located in the basement of police headquarters. And despite the cooler temperature in the morgue, the stench of decay was still quite strong. They found Dr. Albert Robbins in relatively good spirits, considering he'd spent the morning dissecting corpses.

"Ah, Gentlemen, good afternoon!" the pathologist called out. "You're just in time. I just finished up with your Jane Doe."

"Not a Jane Doe. It's been confirmed. Stephanie Watson never came home last night and the clothing and effects on the body were identified by the girl's flatmates. That's good enough. We're officially identifying the body as Stephanie Watson," Jim said.

"Very well, I'll change my records."

"So, what can you tell us about the victim?" Gil asked.

Robbins didn't question Gil's presence. It wasn't the first time he'd seen the entomologist in his morgue, in the company of the detective. The doctor limped over to the sheet-covered body on his work table, leaning heavily on his crutches and he pulled the sheet back, exposing the head of the corpse. The other two men moved closer to the table as well.

"As you've both probably already guessed, the cause of death was exsanguination. Her throat was slit." Robbins said, gesturing to that portion of the body. Gil leaned in for a closer look. Jim remained where he was.

"As you can see," the doctor continued, "your killer used a very sharp knife and he sliced with so much force, that the blade actually bit into the vertebrae."

Robbins had already peeled back the remaining muscle and tissue of the neck, exposing the vertebrae in question. Gil could clearly see a single, deep gouge in the bone.

"The good news is," the doctor went on, "the girl's death would have been quick. I don't know about painless, but at least it didn't last long. The rest of the damage was, thankfully, done post-mortem. And may I just add that, in all my years in the army, I never saw or heard of anything as savage as this, not even during the war."

Robbins was referring to his short career as an army surgeon. A career that was cut short when, during the Civil War, he wandered too close to an overheated cannon, which exploded, showering everything in the vicinity with deadly shrapnel. Several large pieces were embedded in both of his legs. Eventually he lost both legs, but not his love of life or his compassion for humanity.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Jim asked.

"About the girl? No. Other than the injuries which killer her, she appears to have been in the prime of life and in very good health. She wasn't pregnant, if that's what you're asking and as for rape, it's impossible to tell, there's too much damage."

"But there is something you can tell us about the killer...?" Gil asked.

"Yes, not only did your killer use a very sharp knife, but he was very comfortable with how to use it. He knew the trick to slicing the scalp, so that the skin of the face would peel off in one piece. That wasn't an accident. Your man knew what he was doing. That tells me he's had some medical training. He may even be a doctor."

"Really?"

"Yes, as much as I hate to think that someone in my profession could so something like this, I have to admit that it's a strong probability."

"You know, the London police always suspected that Jack the Ripper had medical training," Jim commented.

"Yes, I'd heard that as well," Gil agreed. "So, do you think the injuries were made with a scalpel, perhaps?"

"No, a scalpel wouldn't have cut so deeply," Robbins mused. "It would've had to be a bigger, heavier knife, but something equally as sharp."

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Leaving the morgue and stepping out into the fresh, brisk air and late afternoon sunshine, Gil felt as if he were emerging from a tomb. He took a deep breath, attempting to banish the last of the fumes of death from his sinuses.

"Do you still have that cigar stub I gave you last night?" He asked abruptly, turning to Jim.

Fishing in the pockets of his overcoat for a moment, the detective produced the stub. He handed it to Gil.

"Do you know of a good tobacconist nearby?" the entomologist asked.

"As a matter of fact, there's one just down the street. We can walk. Why?"

"Well, you suggested that the cigar was too expensive for the neighborhood around the theater. Maybe a tobacconist could tell us what neighborhood it would fit into."

As the two men set off in the direction the detective had indicated, he said, "You know, I've been thinking about that. I may have been too hasty with that assessment. There are many men of relatively modest means, who have some very expensive habits. Everyone has their vices."

"Very true," Gil agreed. "And I had thought of that as well, of course."

"Of course," Jim said dryly.

Ignoring this comment, Gil went on, "But I'd still like to get the expert opinion of a good tobacconist."

They continued on for the rest of the short walk in companionable silence. The shop they came to was small and very cluttered. As soon as they entered, their nostrils were filled with the pungent, earthy scents of the diverse, mingled varieties of pipe and cigarette tobacco, as well as the different brands of cigars. It was a thoroughly masculine scent.

As there were no other customers currently in the shop, the proprietor was quick to descend upon them. He was a short, stout man with thinning dark hair, slicked straight back, and a thick, bristling mustache. Gil had the immediate impression of a bull walrus.

"Ah, Capt. Brass, good to see you, as always!" the man called out in a loud, cheerful baritone. "Here for your usual order, are you?"

"Uh, no, not today, Wilson," Jim said. "Actually my colleague and I would just like to ask for your expert opinion."

"Ah, very well, what can I do for you gentlemen?"

Gil handed over the stub of cigar. "By any chance, can you tell us what brand of cigar this is?"

The man took the stub in his beefy hands and examined it for a moment, before bringing it to his nose for a deep sniff.

"Oh, this isn't even a challenge," Wilson said. "This is a Hoja de Oro, Golden Leaf, one of the finest Cuban cigars money can buy. Any tobacconist worth his salt would recognize this."

"Do you stock this Hoja de Oro?"

"No reason to. It's much too expensive for my clientele. No, this is a gentleman's cigar. I don't get many gentlemen in my shop... uh, present company excluded, of course."

"Where would I go if I wished to buy a box of these cigars?" Gil asked.

"Oh, I doubt anyone in this area sells them. You'd have to head uptown, Upper East Side. In fact, there's a nice, little shop right next to Central Park that could probably help you out. The owner's name is Campbell, I believe."

"Thank you, you've been very helpful."

"Always glad to be of service to the boys in blue."

"Yes, thank you, Wilson," Jim added.

Back out on the street, the two men began to walk back towards police headquarters.

"So, how far do you think Roosevelt will allow you to push this investigation?" Gil asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you heard the man, 'this is a gentleman's cigar'. Will Roosevelt back you up if the investigation truly does head uptown?"

"Yes, I think he will, but we're going to need a lot more to go on than just a cigar."

"Well, yes, obviously," Gil agreed. "This doesn't really get anywhere."

As they walked, they passed a small newsstand that sold local newspapers and periodicals. Jim stopped abruptly as one particular headline caught his eye. Tossing a couple of coins onto the counter for the proprietor, he grabbed the newspaper. It was the latest edition of The New York Chronicle. It's headline read 'Butcher Terrorizes Theater District'. The byline was for Tommy Conlin.

"Why that sneaky, little, mick bastard!" Jim sneered, scanning the article. "Somehow he got Johnny and Mike to talk. He's got almost all the details of the murder... and of all the gall... He refers to the killer as 'The Butcher', as if that's his name... Wait a minute. Listen to this..."

The detective began reading directly from the article, "'The police have been left baffled by this brutal murder, which bears many similar characteristics with the still-unsolved Ripper murders in London. Has the unknown killer simply transferred his base of operations here, to the states, or is there a new terror stalking the streets of New York?

"'According to an anonymous, but reliable, member of law enforcement, the murder at the Renaissance Theater may very well be only the latest in a string of violent murders committed by the same butcher. For the past six months or so, this ruthless killer has been traversing the nation, leaving a bloody trail of corpses in his wake, a trail that leads directly to New York City.'"

"'Anonymous, but reliable member of law enforcement'? Who would that be?" Gil asked.

"I have no idea. Conlin certainly didn't get any of that information from Johnny and Mike. He probably just made it up to sell more papers."

"I'm not so sure. As I said before, the murder had a practiced feel to it."

Jim considered this for a moment, before saying, "I'll look into it. I think I'll also have another little chat with our friend Mr. Conlin as well."

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"Tommy, Tommy, where did you get your information?" Jim asked, his tone light, almost friendly.

It was a couple of days after the article had appeared in The Chronicle and he and the young Irishman were sitting in one of the police station's interrogation rooms. It was a small, dimly lit, windowless room, painted an oppressive shade of dark gray. The two men were seated across from each other at a large, battered table, which took up almost the entire room. The chairs they sat in were hard, wooden and very uncomfortable.

"I did some checking, sent some telegrams, made some telephone calls," the detective continued, when the reporter didn't answer his question. "I found out that a young woman was murdered in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania a few weeks ago. Her body was mutilated in much the same way that Stephanie Watson's was. How did you know about that, Tommy? Did you do it?"

"What? No!" the reporter protested immediately. "I have my sources, just like any good reporter."

"Yeah, an 'anonymous, but reliable, member of law enforcement'... If this source of yours works for this department, he's got no business talking to you and I want his name."

"I never said he worked for this department. Maybe he's a Harrisburg cop."

"Nice try, Tommy, but the Harrisburg Police Department didn't know anything about any other murders either. You seem to be the only one who knew about any other murders. Now, if I actually did believe that you had some 'anonymous' source, I would consider him my number one suspect. But since I don't believe there is a source, and you've told me nothing to make me change my mind, I have to think that you should be my main suspect, Tommy."

"Oh, now wait a minute!" Conlin said quickly. "I had nothing to do with those murders. I'm just protecting my source."

"Who, assuming he does exist, may very well be the actual murderer. At best, by protecting him, you're an accessory! Convince me that this guy exists and maybe I'll overlook that."

"You know, you people had the chance to talk to him, but you turned him out."

"What are you talking about?" Jim asked.

"Well, the night of the murder, after you had your boys walk me back to the station, I decided to hang about for a bit. Your boys really hadn't told me all that much. You hadn't really discovered all that much, certainly not enough for me to write a front page story. So, I thought I'd see if something better came along, and sure enough, it did.

"My boy came storming out of the building, furious that your desk sergeant hadn't taken him seriously when he'd tried to warn the man about a possible mass murderer running loose in the city.

"Well, this got my attention, I can tell you. So, I listened to his story and I assured him that I would put the word out, make sure that the young women of the city were warned to be on their guard."

"Oh, you're a regular humanitarian, Tommy," Jim said dryly.

"I am! I listened to what the man had to say. Your people wouldn't. So, which of us has demonstrated more concern for public safety?"

"Alright, Tommy, you win, you're the better man. But I want to talk to this source of yours now. So, tell me his name and where I can find him."

"I, uh, never really got his name," the reporter hedged, unconvincingly.

"Oh, come now, you expect me to believe that you got the scoop of your life from a source and you didn't get his name?"

"That's right. He was very cagey, didn't want to give his name, being in law enforcement and all."

"Well, I assume that you have some way to contact him again, don't you?"

"Possibly."

"Tommy, I'm starting to lose my patience with you. Are you in a hurry to spend some time in a jail cell, because I'm getting tired of the lies."

"I haven't lied to you!"

"Tommy, you said the man was in law enforcement. If that was true, then Serge. Dombrowski would have taken his story seriously."

"The man said he was in law enforcement... Just not in New York."

"Then where?"

"I didn't ask."

Jim sighed and scowled. Getting information out of Conlin was like trying to pull teeth and he was getting tired of trying to pry the man's mouth open. Sensing that he was reaching the limits of the captain's endurance, Conlin was quick to try and make some amends.

"He had a funny accent."

"Funnier than yours?" Jim couldn't help asking. "Alright, was it a foreign accent? Could you tell where he was from, England, perhaps?"

"No, it was more of a regional accent, like the way people from the south talk, but a little different."

"A southern accent, but not quite?"

"Exactly."

"Right. So, what did he look like? I mean, you didn't get his name or where he was from, but you did talk to him face to face, right?"

"He was about average height, dark hair, young, 20-ish maybe. He looked a little worse for wear, like he'd been living rough for a while and he was wearing workman's clothes, not a uniform or a suit or anything."

"Alright, I'm going to let you go, Tommy, but you'd better not be lying to me. I'm going to speak to Serge. Dombrowski and if he doesn't confirm every detail of your story, I'll be sending Johnny and Mike to pick you up again."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So, did you speak to Serge. Dombrowski?" Gil asked.

"Yes and he confirmed everything Conlin said," Jim answered.

The two men were sitting in the high-backed, leather wing chairs in front of the fireplace of Gil's study, sipping bourbon. Jim had just finished telling his friend about his meeting with Conlin earlier that day. It was late evening now and the two men were relaxing after the stresses of their respective jobs.

"So, what are you going to do?" Gil asked. "How do you plan to find this man?"

"I have no idea. I was hoping that you would have a suggestion."

"Sorry, I can't help you," Gil said, with a wry smile.

"No? Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens. We've got nothing else to go on."

The two men fell silent for a long moment, each lost in his own thoughts. Gil was staring into the flames of the fire, when a soft knock on the door of the study, drew him back to his surroundings.

"Come in," he called out, looking towards the door, which opened to reveal Warrick.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Grissom, but there's a police officer at the front door looking for Capt. Brass," the young man said.

"Oh, thank you, Warrick," Brass said.

Both men stood, set their glasses aside and left the room. The study was just off the foyer, so they didn't have far to go to reach the front door. They found Johnny Fitzsimmons standing just inside the foyer, looking uncomfortable in the expensive surroundings. He looked quite relieved to see the detective approach.

"Ah, there you are, sir," Johnny said. "I'm sorry to bother you when you're off duty and all, but another body's been found, young woman, mutilated, just like the one at the theater. Det. Falconi said that I should go and get you. And when you wasn't at home, I figured you might be here."

"Yes, thank you, Johnny, you did the right thing," Jim said. "Why don't you go and wait with the wagon, Dr. Grissom and I will be right there."

"You are planning on coming with me, aren't you?" the detective added, addressing Gil, after the officer had left.

"Of course," Gil said, already heading for the front closet to retrieve their coats.

"Can we come, too?"

Gil turned to see Greg standing on the stairs. The youth's dark blond hair was rumpled and although he was dressed, his feet were bare. He had obviously been roused from bed by the knock on the door. Sara had also responded to the voices and she stood in the hallway leading to the back bedrooms, wearing her dressing gown, her dark hair loose on her shoulders. Warrick, the only one who had still been up, also looked at his employer expectantly.

"Uh, that's probably not a good idea," Gil said diplomatically. "You three should stay here. It's probably going to be a very long night."

At sixteen, Greg didn't need to be exposed to the kind horrific crime scene they were likely to encounter tonight. And while Gil knew very well that Sara could handle the graphic sights, he also knew that the other male officers at the scene would probably have a fit if he allowed her to come along, and unfortunately, the same held true for Warrick.

Visibly disappointed, the three young people drifted back to their various rooms, while Gil and Jim headed out to the waiting police wagon. The neighborhood Johnny took them to was a bit further uptown. It was a modest area that had seen better days. The once elegant row houses were now beginning to show their age. It was still a fairly respectable area, although the signs of urban decay were starting to creep in.

The wagon pulled into an alley behind a line of row houses, where they could see the other officers in the glow of the lanterns they had set up. As the wagon came to a stop and Jim and Gil stepped down, they were greeted by another officer, who had been placed at the entrance to the alley to prevent any unsuspecting civilians from wandering into the area.

They passed him and moved to join Det. Falconi, who was standing beside the body. As Johnny had already reported, the woman had been mutilated in the exact same manner that Stephanie Watson had. Like Stephanie, there was very little left for which to make an identification. There still remained an abundance of dark hair and her dress appeared to be expensive, at least to Gil's inexperienced eye, it did.

The dress was of deep red satin, lavishly embellished with jet beading around the low neckline. The black beads glittered softly in the lantern light, like an encroaching army of tiny beetles, marching toward the bloody ruin of the skull. The blood pool beneath the body was dry around the edges and was even lightly limned in frost. The body had obviously been here for a while.

"She looks like she was dressed for an evening out," Jim commented, unconsciously voicing Gil's thoughts. "Do we know if she lives in or came from one of these houses?" The senior detective gestured toward the backs of the row houses beside them.

"We're not sure yet. I sent one of the beat cops to knock on some doors and ask about her. He's not back yet," Falconi answered. He was a big man, with the dark coloring of his Italian heritage. "But personally, my money's on that house." He gestured toward a particular house made of dark red brick.

"What makes you think she came from that house?" Gil asked.

Jim scowled at his subordinate before answering. "It's a brothel."

"In this neighborhood? If you know what it is, why haven't you shut it down?"

"The owner is generally very discreet and very well connected and, so far, we've been told to... overlook her transgressions."

Gil raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing and the two men turned their attention back to the body.

"It doesn't appear that our killer left us with much of anything this time," Jim commented.

"No, it doesn't. Who found the body?"

"Officer Flynn, over there," Falconi said, gesturing to the officer guarding the entrance to the alley. "He said he heard a couple of stray cats fighting and went to shut them up. He found them fighting over the body."

After a few minutes of examination, they were interrupted by the arrival of the third beat cop and he had a woman with him. She was a tall woman, with the almost aggressively regal bearing of a warrior queen. As she stepped into the glow of the lanterns, Gil saw that she was also quite beautiful. Her dark hair was swept up in a simple, but elegant, loose bun and she was dressed in the unrelieved black of deepest mourning, although, if she was in mourning, Gil thought her dress was rather inappropriately low cut. She wore no jewelry except for a black, velvet choker from which depended a single, large garnet. The deep, red-black color of the stone stood out boldly against its backdrop of pale skin, looking somewhat disturbingly like an open wound.

Looking up and seeing the woman with the officer, Falconi said, "Christ, Joe, what the hell'd you bring her here for? This is no sight for a woman!"

"She insisted!" Joe said with a shrug.

Ignoring the still-arguing men, the woman moved closer to the body and Gil was surprised to see no expression of disgust or repulsion cross her face, only one of profound sadness. She gazed at the body for a long moment, before turning to address Capt. Brass.

"May I touch the body?" she asked. Her voice was low and cultured, the voice of a lady accustomed to ordering servants.

"Sure, what the hell, go ahead," Jim said.

Stepping carefully around the body, making sure to keep her skirts away from the blood pool, the woman crouched down on the right side of the body. Reaching out, she pushed the dead woman's velvet cloak back from her right shoulder and pulled down the shoulder of her dress, revealing a small tattoo of a black rose. The expression of sadness deepened.

"Her name is Mona Taylor. She works...worked for me," Lady Heather said, her voice steady.

"Are you sure?" Jim asked.

"Yes."

"Very well, thank you, Mrs. uh..."

"You may call me Lady Heather."

"Lady, huh?" Jim repeated skeptically.

"Yes." There was a note of challenge in her voice.

"Right, well, thank you, 'Lady' Heather. I'm sorry you had to see this."

Before the woman could respond, the small group's attention was distracted by the sounds of raised voices coming from the entrance to the alley. They turned to see Officer Flynn, who was still stationed there, trying to hold back someone who was apparently attempting to approach the crime scene. Glancing at each other, Gil and Jim went to investigate.

As they approached, Jim gestured for Flynn to release the man. When Flynn didn't comply quickly enough, the other man brushed the officer's hands off impatiently. The man was young, with longish dark hair and a couple of day's worth of stubble on his cheeks. He was dressed in laborer's clothes and looked out of place, even in this modest neighborhood. He wore rumpled canvas trousers and a long, oil-cloth duster, which was obviously intended to be worn for horseback riding in the country, not the city. The wide-brimmed western hat was also out of place.

"I'm Capt. Jim Brass. I'm the detective in charge of this scene. Who the hell are you?"

"Sir, my name is Nicholas Stokes. I'm with the Texas Rangers. You found another murdered girl, didn't you?" the young man said, stepping forward.

"Texas Rangers? You're a ways out of your jurisdiction, aren't you? You get lost, Mr. Stokes?" Jim asked calmly.

"Uh, no," the young man responded, slightly flustered by the older man's matter of fact demeanor.

Jim nodded sagely. "What are you doing here in New York and what is it that you know about this murdered girl?"

"Well, let me guess, her throat was slit, her face was peeled off and she was slashed in the, uh... nether regions..."

Spying Lady Heather, who had moved closer to the men, to listen to their conversation, Nick added quickly, "Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't see you there. I didn't mean to speak so openly about such terrible things in front of a lady."

"It's quite all right, I've heard much worse before," she said with a slight smile. "Don't let me interrupt you gentlemen. Please, continue."

"That was a pretty good guess, Mr. Stokes," Jim said, turning his attention back to the young man. "And just how do you know all those details? Not even the newspaper article included the detail about the 'nether' regions, as you put it. How did you know about that? Did you do this?"

"No! I've been tracking the butcher who did. I've followed his trail of dead bodies all the way from Texas. He killed a friend of mine. I want to find him even more than you do!"

"How did you find out about this body so quickly?" Gil asked.

"Uh, from a local reporter, Irishman. He hangs around the police station. When he heard about this latest body, he had a message sent to me."

"And why would he do that?" Jim asked, already guessing the answer.

"Because I gave him information about other bodies, killed and mutilated in the same manner. In return for that information, he said he'd keep me informed."

"I see," Jim said quietly.

He glanced over at Gil, who returned the significant look. It appeared that they had found the 'anonymous, but reliable, member of law enforcement'. He even had a funny accent.

Turning to Officer Flynn and Officer Fitzsimmons, Jim said, "Would you two gentlemen, please arrest this man."

"With pleasure, sir," the tall Flynn said, with a broad grin. Reaching out a large hand he grasped Nick's shoulder.

"No, wait!" the Texan cried out, trying to pull away from the hands that were attempting to handcuff him. "I didn't do this!" He continued to protest and struggle as the two larger men dragged him toward the waiting police wagon.

Jim ignored the young man's outburst and turned back to Gil with a grin. "Well, that was easy. I like it when the killers come to me."

"Capt. Brass," Lady Heather spoke up. "I think he was telling the truth. I don't thing that young man had anything to do with Mona's murder."

"Oh? And why do you say that?"

"Well, you saw the way he reacted to me. He apologized for speaking frankly in my presence. That shows deference and respect for women." She turned and glanced back at the mutilated body of her former employee. "I find it very hard to believe that any man, who could do that to a woman, has very much, if any, respect for women."

Gil turned to look sharply at Heather. Her words were unexpectedly astute. He should have caught that inconsistency in the young man's behavior himself.

Jim gave an unconcerned shrug. "Well, if he is innocent, it'll come out and he'll be released."

"Of course," Lady Heather said dryly. "Innocent men are never convicted of crimes they didn't commit, are they, Captain?"

Jim cleared his throat and shifted his feet uncomfortably.

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

12/30/06

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 4

Since Gil didn't return to the house until late, breakfast was late the next morning. It was also only marginally edible, since it was Greg's turn to cook. They had still not managed to replace Mrs. Dobbins and since it had been Greg and Warrick's fault the housekeeper had left, Sara flatly refused to do all the cooking, a chore she detested. So, the three young people had devised a rotating schedule for dividing up the housekeeper's usually assigned chores.

Gil had played no part in this arrangement, but he thought it was quite democratic and progressive-minded of the young people and he was quite proud of them. There hadn't even been any squabbling... well, not much anyway.

The family sat at the small, round table in the breakfast nook, set just off from the kitchen. Since the one culinary task Greg had mastered was making coffee, there was plenty of that being consumed, although everyone's plates were still fairly full. Grissom had just finished telling the young people about the second body that had been discovered and about the arrest of their suspect.

"You sound as if you're not sure this man is guilty," Warrick commented, leaning back in his chair and wrapping his long fingers around the warm ceramic of his coffee mug.

"I'm not sure," Gil admitted. "On the surface, he would seem to be our man. He certainly had intimate knowledge of the crimes, but then again, he claims to have been tracking the killer for several months, so I suppose he would have accumulated a fair amount of knowledge in that time. But the madam of the brothel made an interesting observation about the boy which makes me question his guilt even further."

"The madam of the brothel?" Sara repeated, incredulously.

"Yes, a 'Lady' Heather, fascinating woman. You know, I think I may need to speak with her again. She may have some other valuable insights to offer on the case. She's obviously quite intuitive."

Abruptly Sara dropped her fork onto her plate and stood up from the table. Before any of the startled men could also rise, as good manners dictated, she had already left the room. Gil watched her go in confusion. He turned to look at the two younger men for help.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

Greg and Warrick looked at each other and exchanged smiles, but neither said anything.

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After breakfast, Gil went to his lecture, but then ducked quickly out of the building before he could be cornered by Ecklie and headed to the police station. Gil found Jim in his small cluttered office, working on reports for the case.

"Have you spoken to the boy yet?" Gil asked, taking the only other chair in the room.

"Not yet, I was waiting for you. I assumed you'd want to be there as well," the detective said.

"Oh, I do. I canceled my afternoon lectures for this."

"Oh, I'm sure your students will be devastated," Jim said dryly.

Gil ignored this. "So, have you learned anything about him?"

"Yes, when he was processed, before being put in his cell, the guards searched him. They found this tucked in his boot." The detective removed a small Derringer from a drawer of his desk and laid it in front of Gil.

"It was loaded, by the way," Jim continued. "They also found this on his belt."

He removed a large Bowie knife from the same drawer and laid it beside the gun.

"Didn't Doc Robbins say that the killer most likely used a very large, very sharp knife?" Jim asked.

"Yes, he did," Gil said, picking up the knife and examining it closely.

It was indeed very large and very sharp. There were no visible blood stains, but the knife appeared to be very well maintained. Stokes could easily have cleaned the blood off before he returned to the scene of the crime.

"Did you find anything else?" Gil asked.

"Oh, yes, I haven't shown you the best yet. First thing this morning, I got a search warrant and had my men search Stokes' room. He was staying at a cheap, little boarding house on the lower east side. There wasn't much there, but they did find some saddle bags, in which they found these."

The detective removed a plain folder from another drawer and handed it to the scientist. Opening the folder, Gil found several photographs of a dead woman. Judging from the clothing and surrounding scenery, it was the same woman in every photograph. This was difficult to tell from the body itself, as the woman's face had been peeled away, just like the two women they had found. Gil closed the folder and laid it on the desk with an expression of distaste.

"Do you have any idea who she is?" he asked.

"None, but I'm willing to bet that if we ask him, Mr. Stokes will be able to tell us who she is."

"You do realize, Jim, that there could be a perfectly legitimate reason for him to have these photographs."

"Like what?"

"Well, we had your men photograph the bodies..."

"That's different," Jim scoffed. "We did it for evidentiary purposes."

"Well, perhaps Mr. Stokes did it for the same reason. He does claim to be in law enforcement."

"Yeah, well, that has yet to be confirmed. I also sent a telegram to Austen, Texas early this morning. It'll probably be a day or two before I get a reply."

"Was there anything else of interest in the saddle bags?"

"There were mostly some clothes, a few personal items, but there was also this. I don't know if it's significant or not, but it doesn't seem to go with the rest of Stokes' wardrobe."

The detective dropped something small and gold onto Gil's open palm. It was a cufflink, with a single letter "D" engraved on it, in elaborate script. It was most definitely a high quality piece.

"Hmm, no, Stokes doesn't look like he wears cufflinks much," Gil commented. "And even if he did, I don't think someone named Nicholas Stokes would wear cufflinks with a 'D' on them. I think we can safely assume they don't belong to him. They appear to be something a gentleman would wear. Perhaps the same gentleman who smokes Hoja de Oro cigars...? You didn't find a box of cigars in Stokes' room, did you?"

"No," Jim admitted with a scowl. "But Stokes could have stolen both the cufflink and the cigar."

"Possibly, perhaps we should ask him?"

"Yes, I think we should."

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Jim had Nick brought from his holding cell to one of the interrogation rooms and the detective and Gil met with him there. Sitting across the table from him, Jim laid the folder in front of the younger man and flipped it open.

"Care to explain these?" Jim asked, gesturing to the photos.

Watching the young man's reaction, Gil noted immediately the way Nick's hands balled into fists at the sight of the photos. He looked away from them quickly and closed the folder.

"Her name was Kristy Hopkins. She was a friend of mine. She was murdered by the same man who's been killing all these other women. That's why I want to catch him so badly. I want this butcher to pay for what he did to her."

"Don't you think it's a little... sick to be carrying around photographs of your 'friend's' dead, mutilated body?" Jim asked.

"If or when this bastard goes to trial, I want the jury to see what was done to these women. I don't want the jury to just hear about it. I want them to see it, so they can truly know just how sick this butcher is."

"And what made you think to do this, take photographs?" Gil asked, speaking for the first time in the young man's presence.

"My father is a judge in Dallas, Texas. He's always saying that he wishes that he could see the crime scenes, so he and the jury could have a better understanding of the crime or perhaps even of the criminal."

"Your father's a judge?" Jim asked.

"Yes. If you send a telegram to the sheriff of Dallas, he'll confirm that. His name is Ted Willoughby. Kristy was murdered in Dallas and, yes, I was in Dallas at the time of the murder. If you ask them, my family and my partner, John Preston, will vouch for my whereabouts."

"Don't worry, I'll do that," the detective said. "So, let me get this straight, you're telling me, that you tracked this killer all the way from Texas?"

"Yes."

"So, if I were to check, I would find that you've been in every city where a woman was killed and mutilated in this manner?"

"After the fact, yes..."

"How convenient," Jim said.

Nick sighed heavily. "Did you happen to find a shoeprint at one of the crime scenes?"

"Yes."

"It was a fairly large shoeprint, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Gil said, after exchanging glances with the detective.

Nick lifted one leg and planted it on the corner of the table. He gestured to the sole of his boot.

"Not particularly large, are they?" he asked.

"How did you know about the shoeprints?" Gil asked.

"I've found them at a few of the crime scenes as well," the young man said, lowering his leg again.

"Tell me about this." The scientist laid the cufflink on top of the folder.

"I found that at one of the crime scenes as well. It was somewhere in Tennessee. I don't remember where now."

The two older men exchanged glances again and Jim asked, "Do you have any more questions for Mr. Stokes?"

"Not at this time," Gil said.

"Mr. Stokes, I'll be sending those telegrams to confirm your story," Jim said. "In the meantime, you get to sit tight."

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Before leaving headquarters, Gil went with Jim to the morgue, to check in with Doc Robbins about the latest victim.

"This murder has all the same characteristics as the first," the coroner reported. "This woman was definitely killed by the same man."

"You're sure?" Jim asked.

"Oh, yes, the same weapon was used. It even left an identical mark the vertebrae, see?" The pathologist indicated this on the dissected body.

"I'll take your word for it," Jim said quickly.

"Were you able to determine if this girl was raped?" Gil asked.

"No, again, the damage to that area was too extensive."

"Yes, I'm beginning to think that may be the whole point," the scientist mused.

"You think that's why the killer slashes them there, to hide rape?" Jim asked.

"It's possible."

"I don't know... Catherine said it was only fifteen or twenty minutes between when she last saw Miss Watson alive and when she found the girl dead. That doesn't give our killer much time to rape, kill, and mutilate her. Besides, he didn't have any qualms about hiding the murders, why hide rape?"

"Who knows? Maybe he was ashamed. He may have his own set of morals that make sense only to him, that apply only to him."

"Is this more of that new psychology stuff you're always talking about?"

"Yes, Jim, it is."

"Oh, well, you lost me."

With an amused smile, Gil turned to the coroner.

"Thank you for your time, Albert," the entomologist said.

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Since he'd canceled the rest of his lectures for the day, Gil found his afternoon free. Leaving police headquarters, he decided to return to the brothel where Mona Taylor had worked, instead of going straight home. Perhaps the owner, Lady Heather, would have some more useful insights for him.

It was around 4:00 when he arrived at the brick row house and a young woman in a very tightly-corsetted, black satin dress answered the door. The girl asked Gil to wait for a moment in the foyer, while she took one of his calling cards to the lady. The girl returned a few minutes later and led him to the sitting room, where he found the lady seated at a small, round table, pouring tea from an elaborate, antique, silver tea service. She gestured for him to join her at the table. The girl slipped quietly out of the room and closed the door behind her.

"Milk or sugar?" Heather asked, as she poured a cup of tea for Gil.

"Neither, thank you," he said and accepted the delicate china cup and saucer she handed him.

He glanced around the room while she poured another cup for herself. It was a cozy room, with a warm, cheerful fire burning in the fireplace beside them and a bright green and yellow parakeet chirped happily in an ornate, Oriental, wicker birdcage. It was all very homey and "normal". The tea was even excellent and he said as much.

"Thank you," Heather said, "I spent several years in England, where I learned how to make 'proper' tea."

"England, really? What were you doing there, if you don't mind my asking, of course?"

"I don't mind at all. I was married for a time to an English lord."

"Ah, so you really are a 'lady'? That title isn't just an affectation. So, what became of your husband?"

"I don't actually know. At the time that we married, he had a title, but no money. My family had money, but no sons and no title. It seemed like the perfect match. That is, until he spent all my money. Then he disappeared, leaving me and our young daughter with nothing. I had to sell our house in Grosvenor Square and all our possessions, in order to pay off his debts and to pay for the steamship fare for my daughter and I to return to the States.

"And even once we'd returned to New York, I needed to find some way for us to live. I sold the house my family had lived in for generations and bought this one. I decided to do the one thing that I'd been trained my whole life to do, be a good 'hostess'."

"I'm so sorry to hear about your troubles, but thank you for sharing them with me," Gil said sincerely.

"I didn't tell you all that in order to gain your sympathy," Heather said. "I told you, so that you would understand my situation. I don't feel any need to make apologies for my decisions, but I would like to be understood.

"Now, I assume that you're here to ask me more questions about Mona Taylor? Shouldn't your 'partner' be here as well?"

"I'm not actually a police officer," Gil said. "I'm simply a consultant."

"Yes, your calling card rather indicated that, Dr. Grissom," Heather said with a smile. "So, then, why are you here?"

"Well, to be honest, I was very impressed with the unique insight you provided about our suspect's behavior. You said you thought he was innocent. I'm beginning to think you may be right. So, I just thought you might be able to provide some additional insights into the real killer's mindset."

"I see and your partner isn't quite as convinced of my abilities, is he?"

"Well, he isn't much convinced about anything involving psychology, but I'm listening."

"Frankly, I'm not entirely sure what this 'psychology' is, but I admit, I enjoy observing people and in my 'profession', I see all kinds. So, if you're asking for my opinions, I'm quite willing to share them," she said, lifting the cup to her lips with an unconsciously elegant movement. "I read the article in The New York Chronicle about the first murder, or perhaps murders, so I know about some of the similarities between Mona's death and that of the Watson girl, but I assume there were things that were not printed in the article."

"Yes," Gil confirmed. He went on to tell her the rest of the details. He also told her about the cufflink and the cigar that were found near some of the bodies.

After digesting this information for a moment, Heather said, "Your first question should be, why does the killer only choose women? And why women of questionable morality? Tell me, the first young woman, was she also young and pretty?"

"Yes, she was, but she wasn't of 'questionable morality'. I knew her, she was a good girl," Gil said.

"That may very well be, but she was an actress and as such, most of society, particularly those at the higher end of it, would consider that a morally questionable career. To most of them, she'd be little more than a prostitute."

Gil was silent, but he nodded sadly, acknowledging this uncomfortable truth.

"You also need to ask why your killer slashes the women's genitals. Were they also raped?" Heather asked.

"The coroner couldn't confirm rape. That's very difficult to determine that at the best of times, but in both of these cases, there was so much damage..." Gil answered, impressed with the woman's composure. She was discussing the mutilation and possible rape of another woman with all the calm, clinical detachment of a scientist. Not even Sara remained so calm when the subject of rape came up.

"Personally, I think the killer slashes the genitals to deliberately hide all evidence of rape," Gil continued. "I think the killer is, in fact, deeply ashamed of this act. It could even be why he kills them in the first place, so they can't report him. I think he feels that murder is more acceptable than rape."

"I disagree. I don't think he raped them at all," Heather said. "In fact, I think he's a homosexual."

Gil was momentarily left speechless. Not only had that possibility not occurred to him, but he wasn't sure he knew of another woman who actually knew what that word meant, let alone, would dare to use it in a conversation during high tea. Not even Sara would have done that and Gil didn't think she would know what the word meant, although Catherine probably did and she could have told the younger woman...

"You know what homosexual means?" he asked, at last finding his voice.

The lady gave him a very mysterious smile. "I have a very diverse clientele, Dr. Grissom. It's entirely possible that your killer could even be one of my clients."

"Why do you say that?"

"Most of the houses which cater to men of such tastes are located on the lower east side, in some very unsavory parts of the city. Mine is one of the few establishments where a man of society could indulge in such tastes without having to go into those areas. My house is also known for discretion and I have some well placed connections, which afford my clients and me some protection."

"Uh, yes..." Gil said vaguely, choosing to avoid this last line of questioning. "So, you're convinced that the killer is a man of society?"

"Yes, as you've said yourself, the cufflink and the cigar would both seem to indicate this, but so does the choice of victims. Both of the women were young, attractive, and both, at least appeared, respectable. I think this is significant. If the killer had simply wanted to punish 'wanton' women, why not choose more obvious prostitutes? Why choose women who either weren't prostitutes or at least, didn't appear to be ones?"

"Good questions," Gil said musingly. "But getting back to the homosexuality angle, why are you so convinced he's homosexual?"

"Well, considering the level of violence of the attacks, as well as the slashing of the female organs, I'd say it's obvious that your man hates women. Now, I understand perfectly well that many heterosexual men also hate women, and most homosexual men have no quarrel with women, they're simply not attracted to them, but I sense something more at work here.

"Your killer chooses pretty, young women, which would be the average man's ideal, but your man defiles their faces, removes them all together. This tells me that it's their very youth and beauty that he resents, that he feels threatened by, as well as their promiscuity. I think, perhaps, he's jealous. He wants what they have, the ability to attract whatever man they desire."

"He could just as easily be in love with them and he takes their faces as something to remember them by, trophies, if you will," Gil pointed out.

"Yes, you are correct. It's just a theory. I admit that I could be entirely wrong," Heather said, with a delicate shrug.

"Well, you've certainly given me a great deal to think about. I thank you, very much. I'll take my leave now. I've taken up enough of your time."

"You're very welcome. I enjoy stimulating conversation. Please, feel free to come back any time. I serve high tea every day at 4:00."

"Thank you, I may do that. Good afternoon, My Lady," he said with a sly smile and bent to kiss the back of her outstretched hand.

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"There you are!"

These were the words Gil was greeted with, upon entering the house later that afternoon.

"And good afternoon to you, too, Catherine," Gil said.

"Sorry, but we've been waiting for you for nearly a half hour. Aren't you usually home by this time?" the red-head asked.

"Yes, but I, uh, had an errand to run before coming home," Gil said evasively, seeing that Sara was also standing in the foyer. He was a little hesitant to be too forthcoming about his actual destination after her odd behavior that morning.

"And who is 'we'?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, I think I found you a new housekeeper, remember? She's in the sitting room with Greg and Warrick," Catherine said.

"Oh, yes, that's right. With all the recent distractions these past few days, I'd completely forgotten I'd asked you about that. Thank you."

"Yes, I'd figured as much. Well, come in and meet her."

In the sitting room, they found Greg and Warrick seated across from a tall, large woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. She had a pleasant, round face and her steel gray hair was swept up in a simple bun. She wore a plain calling suit of brown tweed and she seemed relaxed and entirely at her ease, sitting in front of the warm fire. By contrast, Greg and Warrick sat watching her, tense and wary, as if she was a bear that had somehow stumbled into their midst.

Leading the entomologist forward, Catherine made the introductions. "Gil, this is Constance McGregor. Mrs. McGregor, this is Gil Grissom."

The woman had risen to her feet when they'd approached and now she thrust out a large hand and spoke in a thick Scottish brogue, "Dr. Grissom, it's an honor to meet you, sir."

"Thank you, uh, I take it that you've already met the rest of the household?"

"Yes sir."

"And you have no issues with the unorthodox nature of this household?"

"None at all, sir," the woman said placidly.

"Excellent. Uh, what are your, uh, qualifications?" Gil asked. He didn't especially care about this, but he'd seen Catherine's encouraging little head-jerk toward the other woman and realized that he was expected to ask a few questions.

"I can provide references, of course, but as for qualifications... Well, I was married to a soldier for many years. When he was sent to the Crimean Peninsula to fight the Russians, I followed after, like any good wife. To make myself useful, I served as an army nurse."

"Did you work with Florence Nightingale?"

"Aye, that I did, sir," the woman said, a note of pride flavoring her words.

"Really?" Gil said, his full attention now focused on the woman. "What was she like?"

"Oh, she was a delight to work with, demanding, but very fair. She never asked us to do anything she didn't do herself."

"Uh, and your husband? What became of him? I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry, but this is a live-in situation..."

"Oh, my Andrew was in the 93rd Highland Regiment. He fought at the Battle of Balaclava."

"Ah, I see. He was part of the 'Thin Red Line'?"

"Yes sir, he was." The note of pride was much stronger now. "He was one of the lucky ones. But he passed away three years ago. My son and daughter-in-law brought me here to the States to live with them, but they have their own family to worry about and I've always believed in earning my own keep. When Mrs. Willows told me about your work, I thought this might be a good situation for me."

"So, you don't have an issue with bugs?"

"Well, after living in the appallingly unsanitary conditions at the hospital at Scutari, I don't like them, but keep them out of my kitchen and we should be fine," the woman said, throwing a side long look at the two young men, who quickly assumed appropriate attitudes of contrition.

"You're hired," Gil said. "When can you move in?"

"Right now, if you'd like. I have my things right here." She gestured to two large carpet bags that sat at her feet.

"That's it?"

"As a soldier's wife, you learn to travel light."

"Excellent."

"Well then, if someone could show me to my room. It'll only take me a minute or two to get unpacked and then I'll start dinner."

"Yes!" Greg cried out, jumping to his feet, thrilled at the prospect of not having to cook the evening meal, but when all eyes turned to him, he quickly sobered. "I mean, um, right this way, Mrs. McGregor."

To be continued...


	5. Chapter 5

1/14/07

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 5

The next day was Friday, so Gil only had his late morning classes. After a very pleasant breakfast, prepared by Mrs. McGregor, he left for the university. At the end of his lecture, he once again managed to elude Ecklie and thereby avoid having to commit to the weekly departmental meeting.

Gil returned to home to find the house abuzz with activity. As he was hanging his overcoat in the front closet, he saw Sara and Greg come down the stairs carrying armloads of bedding. Peeking into the formal dining room, he saw Warrick on a stool, dusting the cut glass chandelier that hung over the long table. Returning to the foyer, he found Mrs. McGregor, her shirt sleeves rolled up past her elbows, now directing Greg to clear away the cobwebs that had collected in the corners of the high-ceilinged room.

"Ah, good afternoon, sir!" the housekeeper said cheerfully. "I didn't expect you home so early. I've already served lunch, but I could warm something up for you, if you'd like."

"Oh, no, no, I'm fine and I can see that you're busy."

"Oh, it's no bother, sir. It's just that I wasn't sure where your last housekeeper had left off with her cleaning routine, so I thought I'd just start over, give the whole house a thorough cleaning. A house can never be too clean, I always say.

"But I've got my three little helpers, so it shouldn't take long. Isn't that right, dear?" she asked, smiling benevolently at Greg.

"Yes ma'am," the youth said quickly, looking completely cowed.

"Well, you four have a good time. I'll be in my study, grading papers," Gil said.

"I'll see that you're not disturbed," Mrs. McGregor said.

"Thank you," the entomologist said and retreated to his study.

He remained there for the next couple of hours, after which there was a light tap on the door to the study. After his invitation to enter, Sara opened the door and stepped into the room.

"Capt. Brass is here to see you," the girl reported.

"Oh, thank you, please, send him in."

"You know, you really need to get a telephone," Jim grumbled as he sat down heavily in the chair nearest the fire and held his chilled hands out to the flames. "They're really quite convenient. I could just call you, instead of having to come all the way down here whenever I needed to talk to you."

"Ah, but this way, people only bother me if it's very important. If I had a telephone, people, namely Ecklie, would be bothering me all the time.

"So, what is it that brings you 'all the way down here' this afternoon?"

"I received replies to my telegrams."

"And?"

"Stokes was telling the truth, well, for the most part. The headquarters of the Texas Rangers in Austen, confirmed that he was in their service. He did neglect to mention that he'd turned in his badge before he'd left Texas, but other than that, his story has been verified.

"The sheriff in Dallas also confirmed that he was in the area for the first murder, but he was at his father's ranch. And yes, the father is a prominent local judge, with very long arms, I might add. Evidently he has friends here in New York and they've been calling Roosevelt on his behalf. I've been ordered to release Stokes," Jim concluded with a heavy sigh. "And I was so hoping this whole ugliness would be over with quickly."

"I have to admit, I'm glad to hear all this," Gil said. "I find that I rather like Stokes. I'm glad that he appears to be innocent."

"'Appears to be'? You don't sound convinced."

"Well, these telegrams don't necessarily clear him. We don't know the full details of the crimes in Texas or the other states. We can only truly make judgments based on the crimes committed here in New York. And we can't truly rule him out as a suspect for those just yet."

Jim frowned in confusion. "So, what are you saying? You don't think I should release him?"

"Oh, yes, release him. I'll even go with you to give him the good news. After all, since your boys ransacked his room, he's not going to be welcome at that boarding house any more. He might need a place to stay for a while..."

"Ah, another stray for you to take in?" Jim asked. "What if he says no?"

"Then we should definitely be suspicious," Gil said. "If he has nothing to hide, there would be no reason for him to refuse the offer."

"Except that he has no more reason to trust us than we have to trust him."

"True," Gil admitted. "You're right, it's not going to definitively prove or disprove anything, but it could serve as a reinforcement of the telegrams. Besides, if he is innocent, he could be very helpful in the investigation."

"Alright, I'll go along with that, but let's get going. There's a lot of paperwork to fill out."

After warning Mrs. McGregor of the strong possibility of a guest in the house, Gil and Jim headed to police headquarters in the police wagon that had brought Jim to the house. The two men went straight to the holding cells located in the lower rear portion of the large building. They found the young man dozing lightly on his bunk. He awoke almost immediately upon their arrival. He stood and moved to the front of the cell, to lean against the bars.

"Well, I got the telegrams from Austen and Dallas, confirming your story," Jim said. "Looks like you were telling the truth, well, except for that part about turning in your badge. You neglected to mention that little tidbit, but I'm in a generous mood, so I'm going to overlook it."

The detective nodded to the guard, who had been standing nearby with the keys to the cell, and now the man stepped forward to unlock the door. Jim led the way and Nick followed him and Gil up the three flights of stairs to the second floor and Jim's small, tidy office.

"You two have a seat and I'll be right back with your personal affects, Mr. Stokes," Jim said. "There's also some paperwork that has to be filled out. I'm sure you understand, being in law enforcement yourself."

The detective walked out of the office, leaving Nick and Gil alone. The young Texan turned to regard the man beside him with open curiosity.

"So, what exactly are you?" Nick asked, after a moment of scrutiny. "You're not a police officer, that's for sure."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, you don't carry yourself like a police officer. You look too, I don't know, studious. That, and every police officer we passed in the halls just now had a word of greeting or acknowledgment for the captain, but not for you. I'm guessing you're a consultant of some kind."

"Very good, I am a consultant. We never were formally introduced. I'm Dr. Gil Grissom."

"Doctor? Tell me you're not one of those academic types, who sit around reading Freud, are you?"

"Sorry, yes, I have a PhD in Biology. My specialty is Entomology and I very much enjoy Freud."

"Entomology... You study... bugs?"

"Yes, correct again. You obviously have some formal education."

"No, not really," Nick said. "There isn't much formal education to be had in Dallas, Texas. My brother and sisters and I were educated by our parents, who did have formal educations."

"Ah, yes, of course, your father is a judge..."

"Capt. Brass didn't leave us alone so that you could ask about my education," Nick commented, getting to the point. "So, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?"

Gil smiled at the younger man's directness and said, "No, you're right. I'm afraid after the police visited the boarding house where you were staying, you won't be welcome there any longer. Those kinds of places tend to prefer as few police visits as possible. I feel a bit responsible for that.

"In order to make up for it, and for our previous suspicions about you, I thought I would offer you a place to stay. I have a large house, with a spare bedroom. You're welcome to stay there, while you're in New York. You could help us with the investigation."

"Yes, and you could continue to keep an eye on me, correct?"

"Uh, yes," Gil said, again smiling at the young man's blunt manner.

"Very well, I accept your offer. I have nothing to hide and I do need a place to stay. Thank you, Mr. Grissom."

"Your welcome, and if you're going to be staying in my home, please, call me Gil."

"Very well, thank you, Gil."

The entomologist went on to warn the young man about his unorthodox household and they made inconsequential small talk until the detective returned with the paperwork and the large saddlebags containing Nick's personal affects. While the young man rummaged through the bags, making sure nothing was missing, Jim sat down at the desk and started on the paperwork.

"Uh, my knife and my gun...?" Nick asked, pointedly.

"Oh, yeah..." Jim mumbled and unlocked the drawer of his desk, where he'd stashed the weapons. "You do know you're not supposed to have that in the city, right?" he asked handing over the small gun.

"Right," the young man said, his expression neutral, as he accepted the Derringer and pulled up his pant leg, to return the weapon to the top of his boot.

"Right," Jim repeated, handing over the knife as well.

Finishing up with the paperwork, the detective had Nick back on the street within the hour. Accepting Gil's invitation to dinner, Jim accompanied the other two men to the boarding house where Nick had been staying to collect the rest of his few belongings that the police hadn't seized. Afterward, they returned to Gil's house.

They found that the cleaning frenzy appeared to have run its course and Mrs. McGregor had tea waiting for them. As the three men stepped into the foyer and introductions were made, the housekeeper took one look at Nick's dusty boots and coat, unkempt hair and three-day growth of beard and put her hands on her stout hips.

"You are not taking another step into this clean house until you've had a bath," she said firmly.

Stunned at this blunt reception, Nick turned to look quizzically at Gil, who simply gave the young man a helpless shrug and a slightly bemused smile. Greg was immediately summoned and dispatched upstairs to the bathroom to draw the bath water, while Mrs. McGregor divested Nick of his boots and oilcloth coat. He was then marched up the stairs to the bathroom and directed to get in the tub.

Feeling a bit like he was ten years old again, Nick stripped off his worn clothes and let them drop onto the tile floor. Climbing into the large, porcelain bathtub, he lay back and luxuriated in the deliciously hot water. He had to admit that he probably did present a rather shabby figure. It had been weeks since he'd had a proper bath. Tracking the unknown killer for the past few months, Nick had been living hard and rough. Most of the time he was forced to simply make do with wash basins for his daily ablutions.

After washing his hair and scrubbing himself clean, the young man lay back to simply soak his tired muscles and bask in the heat of the water. He was just starting to feel himself drift off to sleep, when he was jolted awake by the door opening and Mrs. McGregor bustling into the room.

With a startled squeak, Nick quickly sank down lower in the tub, trying to hide as much of his lean, naked body as possible under the soapy water. Seeing this action as she bent to collect the young man's scattered garments off the floor, the housekeeper simply chuckled at his modesty.

"Oh, come now, Boy," she said. "I've worked as an Army nurse and I raised three sons of my own. You've got nothing that I haven't already seen before, plenty of times."

"Yeah, well, you haven't seen mine before," Nick said defensively.

"Oh, yes, and I suppose if I did, I'd swoon at the very sight of it," the woman said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. "I'll be back in a few minutes with some clean clothes for you to wear. I'll also make sure you get a razor," she added pointedly.

"Yes ma'am!" Nick called out, with a mock salute to her retreating back.

"Ah, I can see we're going to get along just fine, you and I," the woman returned over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her.

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The clothes Mrs. McGregor provided him with were apparently Warrick's and they were bit too big for Nick, but once he'd rolled the pant legs and the sleeves up, they fit reasonably well. The gray flannel shirt was soft and warm, as were the black wool trousers. Nick had almost forgotten how nice it was to wear freshly laundered clothes. He wore his own undershirt and underdrawers, his last clean pairs. All of his other clothes Mrs. McGregor confiscated to wash. She didn't even leave him a single pair of stockings to wear, and since there weren't any shoes which fit him, he was forced to pad around the house in his bare feet.

Coming downstairs after his bath, he found the matronly woman waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. Inspecting him from head to foot, she gave him a smile and a pat on the cheek, saying, "Well, well, who knew there was such a handsome face under all that scruff? Now, come into the dining room, I'm just about to serve dinner."

As usual dinner was a noisy, informal affair. Jim and Gil caught the younger people up with the latest developments on the case and everyone offered an opinion, including Mrs. McGregor, who was persuaded to join them at table. Gil had always felt that servants should be treated like members of the family and should therefore be included in all meals, contrary to the social norm, where servants would be relegated to serving the meal only and eating in the kitchen either before or after the family they served.

During dinner, Nick told the others the full story of how he came to be tracking the unknown killer to New York. After dinner, the young people, including Nick, at his own insistence, helped Mrs. McGregor clean up, while Jim and Gil retired to Gil's study for a glass of bourbon.

Since Nick and the other two young men seemed to be getting along so well, it was decided that instead of sleeping in the unoccupied guest room, he would sleep in the large, but cozy, attic with Warrick and Greg. A small, spare bed was found in the basement and quickly set up for the Texan and soon the three young men were bedded down for the night.

As it was still fairly early and none of the men were particularly tired, they lay in bed talking by the light of the wood-burning stove that heated the room. For Nick, who had spent the past few months almost entirely alone, the camaraderie with the other two men was a very welcome change. Nick generally genuinely liked people and the solitude of his hunt had been rather wearing.

From somewhere under his bed, Greg produced a bottle of whiskey and the three men passed it around as they talked. Warrick had just finished telling the Texan about how he had come to live in Gil's household, when there was a light tap on the door to the attic.

"Come on in, Sara," Warrick called out softly.

Sara slipped into the room, wearing a thick, dark blue, wool dressing gown over her long, white night gown. Her dark hair was down and loosely confined by a blue ribbon. Without waiting to be invited, she took a seat on the end of Greg's bed and took the bottle from him. After taking a healthy swig, she passed it over to Nick.

"Do you always come up here, late at night, unchaperoned, to drink with the boys?" the Texan asked, with an amused smile, accepting the bottle.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Why, is that a problem for you?" the girl asked, a distinct note of challenge in her voice.

"No, ma'am," Nick said quickly. Turning to Greg, he asked, "So, what's your story? How did you end up living here?"

"Oh, I came to live here after Grissom and his friend, Catherine, caught my Nana Anika and I running a séance con," the boy said unabashedly.

"You were running a con with your grandmother?" Nick asked, shocked.

"You have to understand, my Nana Anika does have the Sight and she used to read tea leaves back in Norway," Greg insisted. "But after my mother and grandparents immigrated here to America, things have been pretty tough. My father, who my mother met here in America, left shortly after I was born and then my mother died of consumption when I was seven. I was raised by Nana Anika and Papa Olaf ever since.

"A couple of years ago, Papa Olaf got sick and the doctor said it was consumption. My grandparents had already gone through this with my mother and they knew how long and expensive the illness could be and they knew they couldn't afford to pay the bills, especially if Papa Olaf couldn't work.

"So, Nana Anika had read about how popular these séances are at these society parties and she thought she and I could manage it together. We actually did pretty well for ourselves for a while, until Grissom's friend, Catherine, hired us for her party.

"Grissom was there and he exposed us. He threatened to have us arrested, until we told him about Papa Olaf. He didn't believe us at first, but he came to our flat and he saw how sick Papa Olaf really was. Grissom came back the next day with a better doctor, a man named Robbins and he examined Papa Olaf. Doc Robbins told us that the other doctor had lied. Papa Olaf didn't have consumption. He just had a bad case of pneumonia. Doc Robbins gave us some penicillin and Papa Olaf eventually got better.

"Grissom offered to teach me and he gave me a job and he let me move in here, so my grandparents don't have to support me. He also helped Nana Anika get a tea house, where she can read tea leaves again. He's been very good to my family."

Nick nodded thoughtfully at this information. The stories the other young men were sharing were helping the Texan get a better feel for Gil Grissom, the man in whose house he was staying, as well as giving Nick a feel for the young men themselves. So far, Nick liked was he was learning. Greg and Warrick both seemed like honest (Greg's brief foray into the world of confidence games notwithstanding), hard-working, young men and the stories about Grissom painted a picture of an intelligent man who respected the law and helped those in need whenever he could. In short, a man not unlike Nick Stokes himself.

"So, what about you?" Nick asked, turning abruptly to Sara and handing the whiskey bottle back to her. "How is it that you live here? Are you related to Grissom in some way, a niece, perhaps?"

"No," Sara said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, after taking another pull of the alcohol. Passing the bottle on to Warrick, she continued, "Grissom took me in after Capt. Brass found me living in a women's asylum."

"Asylum? You mean, like an insane asylum?"

"Yes, exactly like an insane asylum."

"Oh," Nick said neutrally, glancing over at the other two men. Noting their serious expressions, he knew there was much more to this story. "Please, go on..."

"Well, growing up, my father had always been very... strict and he generally favored... physical forms of punishment. And not just with my brother and I. He punished my mother quite a bit as well."

Nick nodded sadly. He understood quite well what she was saying, as well as what she was not saying.

"My father had a good career," Sara continued. "He worked in an accounting firm on Wall Street. We had a nice home, in a nice part of the city. No one was particularly inclined to listen to my mother's complaints.

"When I was twelve, my older brother got married and moved out of the house. I don't know, once my brother was gone, things got worse... Finally, when I was fifteen, my mother had had enough and one night, she stabbed my father with a carving knife.

"When the police and the detectives came, they kept questioning me, asking me what had happened... What was I supposed to say? My father beat my mother and I, so she killed him? None of those things are supposed to happen in our neighborhood. And maybe he did deserve to die, but he was still my father... So, I just didn't say anything, to anyone, for the next few years.

"The various detectives and doctors that came to see me didn't know what to make of me. Eventually they just put me in the asylum. I was in there for almost five years before somehow, the case ended up with Capt. Brass. You see, my mother's case had been tried three times and had ended in a hung jury every time. The prosecutors always wanted me to testify, but I wouldn't talk, at all.

"I wouldn't talk to Capt. Brass either, but he came back with 'Dr.' Grissom and, I don't know, everything just spilled out. But they didn't make me testify and eventually the prosecution got their conviction without me.

"Grissom got me released into his care. Apparently his PhD in Biology was good enough for the director of the asylum. It was very overcrowded and I think he was just glad to be rid of me. And that's how I came to live here."

"That's incredible," Nick said softly. "And Grissom lets all of you live here for free?"

"Well, we help out around the house and we help with his experiments and his books," Warrick said. "And whenever they let us, we help Grissom and Brass with their investigations. But Grissom won't let us pay him anything."

"So, Grissom must have some independent wealth, because I can't see a college professor, even a PhD, making enough money to support this household."

"Oh, yeah," Warrick said, with a smile. "Grissom's got money. You don't need to worry about that."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was only a few hours later that Nick and Warrick were awakened by the murmur of low voices and the soft glow of an electric hand-held light. Nick sat up quickly in the little bed, to find Gil and Jim, both fully dressed, standing at the foot of his bed. Gil was shining the light towards the floor, just under the bed. Jim crouched down to examine something.

The two younger men exchanged confused glances. Greg was still sound asleep and Sara had long ago returned to her own room. Nick leaned over to see what the detective was looking at. Nick's boots were the only things under the bed. It was then that he heard it, the light drumming of rain on the roof overhead and he understood what the other two men were doing.

"What's going on?" Warrick asked, keeping his voice low, so as not to wake Greg.

"There was another murder, wasn't there?" Nick asked. "You were checking my boots for mud, weren't you? To see if I'd gone out at all tonight."

"Yes," Jim said. He added over his shoulder to Gil, "They're clean and dry."

"Of course they are. I'm not the killer."

"No, apparently you're not. But you understand, I had to be sure..."

"Yeah, I understand. I probably would've done the same thing," Nick said sleepily, stifling a yawn. "Do you need help with the crime scene?"

"No," Gil said softly. "I seriously doubt we're going to find anything useful in this rain. Go back to sleep, both of you. We'll all talk in the morning."

"Okay," Nick said and lay back down. Rolling over, he pulled the warm quilts back up and made himself comfortable. It was a testament to his confidence in the competence of the two older men that he didn't feel compelled to go with them and see the crime scene for himself.

The truth of the matter was that for the first time in months, Nick felt warm, dry, and safe. He was exhausted and still slightly buzzed from the alcohol. He had absolutely no desire to tromp around in the rain looking at yet another horribly mutilated woman. For once, he was going to trust someone else to handle it. Within a matter of minutes, he was fast asleep again.

Warrick gave the two older men a brief, hard look, annoyed that they hadn't trusted his new friend, but then he too, lay back down and went back to sleep. Both their minds a little easier now that their suspicions had finally been laid to rest, Gil and Jim left the room as quietly as they had entered it.

To be continued...


	6. Chapter 6

2/5/07

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 6

The next morning, after everyone had had breakfast and the young people were helping Mrs. McGregor clean up, Gil pulled Greg aside and gave him a special task.

"Go uptown and pick up Catherine at her house and bring her back here," the entomologist requested.

"Me?" Greg asked, eyes wide. "In the carriage? Alone?"

"Well, yes..." Gil said.

"Okay!" the youth agreed quickly, before the older man could come to his senses and change his mind. "Uh, is Catherine expecting me?"

"Oh, uh, no..."

"Well, are you sure she's going to want to come with me? What if she has plans for the day?"

"Tell her that we're going to be discussing Stephanie Watson's murder and I'm sure she'll want to be here."

"Alright," the boy said and hurried out of the house to carry out his orders.

Shortly after the boy left, Jim Brass arrived at the house, just as he and Gil had arranged the night before. While everyone waited for Greg to return with Catherine, Mrs. McGregor brewed more coffee and Gil had Warrick and Nick move the large blackboard from the laboratory attached to the back of the house and into Gil's study. Bringing in a few extra chairs from the dining room, everyone gathered in the study. Greg returned within the hour, bringing with him a mildly annoyed Catherine.

"You couldn't have given me a little more notice before summoning me to your presence?" the red-head asked, as she and Greg joined the group in the study. "You know, I have one of those new telephones. If you had one too, you could have called me. Luckily my mother was still at home and hadn't left to go calling on people, otherwise I wouldn't have had anyone to look after Lindsay," Catherine said, referring to her young daughter. "Saturday is the nanny's day off."

"I'm sorry, Catherine, but we're going to need your input on this discussion and I assumed you'd want to be here," Gil said.

"Oh, I do want to be here, I just would have preferred a little more advance warning. And someone other than Greg as a chauffeur," she added, pressing a hand to her stomach for emphasis.

"That old lady had plenty of time to get across the street," the boy protested, although he looked a bit chagrined as he plopped down on the carpet beside Nick, who was already seated there.

"Yes, well, I'll try to keep your wishes in mind in future," Gil said.

"Mmmhmm," Catherine murmured, knowing full well that he would do no such thing.

She smiled warmly at Warrick, who had gallantly risen from his chair and was indicating that she should take it. He moved to join Nick and Greg on the carpet in front of the fire, while Catherine took the vacated chair and primly arranged the skirts of her smart, dark blue calling suit.

"Excellent, now that we're all here, we can get started," Gil said, moving from his desk to stand beside the blackboard. "To start off, let me introduce Catherine to our guest."

The entomologist made the introductions between Catherine and Nick and asked Nick to repeat his story to the entire group, which the Texan proceeded to do. Gil then asked Catherine to repeat her story to the group.

While the other two spoke, Gil passed around the photographs that Nick had had taken of Kristy Hopkins' body, as well as the photos he and Jim had had taken of Stephanie Watson and Mona Taylor's bodies. Gil reported that he didn't have photographs of the latest victim yet, but the murder scene was very much the same as the previous two. He and Jim had found no new clues, as the rain had almost completely ruined the scene. They hadn't even managed to discover the victim's identity yet. The group would have to rely on the other murder scenes for their analysis.

"So, thoughts, theories, impressions...?" Gil asked the group at large. "Anyone, anything...? At this point, I don't think any theory would be any more or less valid than the next and I don't think any theory could be too outlandish."

When no one ventured to comment, the entomologist picked up a nub of chalk from the ledge beneath the blackboard and wrote the words, "The Killer" in the top left-hand corner of the board. Beneath these words, he wrote the words "clue" and "speculation".

"Alright, from the information we have, what can we reasonably speculate about our killer?" he asked, turning back to face the group and feeling a bit like he was facing his students in his lecture hall.

"We found an expensive cigar and a gold cufflink at some of the crime scenes," Jim ventured, starting things off. "From these, we can speculate that he's wealthy and his last name possibly starts with the letter 'D'."

"Good," Gil said, writing these things on the board. "What else?"

"Well, these are some pretty big shoe prints," Warrick said, holding up the photograph of the bloody shoeprint that Grissom had asked to be taken. "Shoe size often relates to height, so our man could be pretty tall, or he has unusually big feet."

When no one else offered anything, Gil said, "Doc Robbins speculated that because the killer seemed to know how to handle a knife well and he managed to use it to partially skin the women very quickly and efficiently, he's probably a doctor or at least has some medical training. What else?"

"As far as I was able to determine, the butcher's killing spree seemed to have started in Texas, with the dog and the cow," Nick commented. "I figure they were probably practice. But I don't think the killer is from Texas. I think he's from New York. I think the trail of bodies he left, was just him heading home, and killing along the way."

"What makes you say that he's from New York?" Jim asked. "He could be from Texas and his cross-country travels are just his way of avoiding detection, of avoiding you."

Nick smiled at the detective. "I'm flattered, but no, I don't think so. I've been a step or two behind this guy all along. Frankly, I don't think he even knows I exist, let alone that I'm following him. He kills his victims in the open, in public places. Yes, out-of-the-way places, but still public. He makes no effort to hide the bodies. I don't think he's trying to avoid detection. He doesn't seem to be thinking about detection at all. So, he's either very careless, or very arrogant."

"Or very unstable," Sara commented darkly.

"Uh, getting back to why I think he's from New York," Nick said, after everyone had digested this unsettling comment for a moment. "In the past, the butcher has killed and then immediately left town. But he's killed three times here in New York. That's new for him. This tells me, that either he's discovered that he likes New York, or this is his home. I'm inclined to go with the latter.

"My theory is that he was just visiting Texas, for business maybe, I don't know. But something happened in Texas that triggered this killing rage and our man just brought his rage back to New York with him."

"So, we know that our killer has some connection to Texas," Gil said, writing all these things on the board. "If he's not actually from Texas, then we know that he recently visited that state. And we're reasonably certain that the killings started there. So, what happened in Texas?"

The group was silent.

"We've speculated about what physical attributes our killer might have and we've examined what we can of his possible background. But now, we must try to consider what's going on in his head. I'm sorry, Jim, but we're going to have to start using psychology," Gil said, with a wry smile at the detective.

"If you must," the captain said with a dramatic sigh.

"So, let's turn our attention to the victims," the entomologist said. "What can they tell us? We have no way of knowing whether or not they were sexually assaulted, but we do know that they were all sexually mutilated. Why? Was this done to cover up sexual assault or to... simulate it?"

"Or to obliterate the sex itself," Catherine said softly.

"Very good," Gil said, gesturing toward the red-head with the chalk in his hand. "When I spoke to the madam of the brothel, she speculated the same thing. She suggested that the killer might be homosexual, that he sexually mutilated the victims because he hated women, that he resented them because he wanted to be like them."

"Or he mutilated them because he couldn't rape them," Catherine said. "He wants to punish them in that manner, but because of his sexual inclination, is physically unable to. So, he mutilates them instead."

During this exchange, Nick had taken the photographs of the three women and had laid them out side by side on the floor in front of him. Now he spoke up.

"Wait a minute, I just noticed something. I don't know why I didn't see it before. These women all resemble each other."

"What?" Jim exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair for a better look. The others all did the same. "How can you tell, they don't have any faces?"

"Yes, but I saw photographs of several of these women when they were still alive. I spoke to their families and friends. These women were all fairly tall, thin, very attractive and all brunette," Nick said, glancing up at the scientist.

"Assuming you're right," Gil said softly, "Our killer may not be trying to punish women in general, but one woman in particular, a woman who fits this general description. For whatever reason, our man can't, or won't, kill her, so he kills these women instead. If we could figure out who this woman is, we might very well find our killer."

"Do you think this woman is someone of 'loose' morals, like the victims?" Catherine asked.

"Hmm, not necessarily, perhaps that's just the killer's perception of her," Gil said.

Turning back to gaze at the blackboard and all the information written on it, Gil continued, "We've made very good progress here. Let's review what we have. Our killer is someone who recently traveled to Texas, but is probably a local, possibly a member of society, and is most likely a doctor or at least someone with medical training. Our killer may be very tall or may have very big feet. So, how do we find him?"

"Well, if he is a member of society, he could very well be someone already known to us, or more specifically, to you," Catherine pointed out.

"Yes, this is true," Gil said soberly.

"You may have to start accepting some invitations to all those society functions that you usually refuse," Jim suggested with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Yes, this is also true," Gil agreed, now sounding bleak.

"Well, thanks to Sam, I often get invited to society functions as well," Catherine said. "I could put in a few more appearances than I usually do. Then we could cover more ground, since we're probably invited to different functions."

"That's a good idea, but you should take someone with you. I don't want you possibly drawing the killer's attention when you're alone."

"Well, the same should apply to you then," the red-head pointed out.

The entomologist gave her a wry smile. "Very well, neither of us will go out alone. So, who will be accompanying us?"

He looked around at the group. "Jim can play one chaperone... No offense, but I think Warrick and Greg would stand out too much..."

"I don't think I'd be welcome either," Sara said. "Too many people know about my... history."

"Well, I can clean up my act and play the society role, if I have to," Nick volunteered.

"Yes, I think you'd be good candidate," Gil said. "No one around here knows you. We can tell people that you're a relative of mine, a cousin perhaps, visiting from Texas."

Catherine swiveled around in her chair and turned a penetrating gaze on the younger man. She looked him up and down, a calculating look on her face.

"No offense, Mr. Stokes, but we're going to need to clean up more than just your act, if you're going to be entering high society," she said bluntly.

The young man ran a hand self-consciously over his chin. "What? I shaved this morning..."

"Yes, but when's the last time you had a haircut?"

"Um, I don't remember..." he admitted, now running his hand through his longish, dark hair.

"We'll go to the theater this afternoon and I'll get you cleaned up. We'll find some more suitable clothes for you as well."

"Excellent, it's decided," Gil said. "Catherine and I will begin attending as many functions as we can, accompanied by either Jim or Nick. We'll report back here after every function to discuss possible suspects."

The group split up shortly after this. Gil stayed at the house, to begin going through his recent correspondences, looking for any invitations he could accept. Jim returned to the police station, to see if any new information had come in about the killer or his latest victim. Catherine and Nick, accompanied by Warrick, Greg and Sara, went to the theater to refine Nick's appearance.

Arriving at the theater, which had been closed since Stephanie's Watson's murder, the group found a couple of the theater company's actors rehearsing on the stage. While Warrick, Greg and Sara went to raid the costume room, to find more "gentlemanly" attire for Nick, Catherine and Nick stopped to chat with the two actors.

Pauly Sullivan, who was going to be replacing Stephanie Watson as Ophelia, was a mere slip of a youth, about Greg's age. Pauly had very large, very liquid brown eyes and in a dress and with stage make-up on, made a very convincing girl. When Catherine introduced the boy to Nick, she also explained that prior to coming to the theater company, Pauly had worked as a boy prostitute in the lower east side. The other actor was James Kilpatrick, who was playing the part of Hamlet. Catherine asked Kilpatrick to take a break so she and Nick could speak to Pauly in private.

"So, Pauly," she began, "do you mind if we ask you a few questions about your, um, previous career?"

"No, go right ahead and ask. You know I've never been shy about that," the boy said. His voice was very soft and rather high.

"Thank you. Do you remember encountering or even just seeing a particular gentleman? He probably would have been very well dressed, very wealthy. He also would have either been very tall or had very big feet. His last name probably started with a 'D'. Does this sound familiar to you at all? I know it's not much to go on..."

"Hmm," the boy mused for a moment. "No, that doesn't sound like anyone I can think of. But you'd be surprised at the number of society types that would come slumming around our houses. So, that kind of description doesn't stand out as much as you'd think it would. Why are you trying to find this man?"

"Well, we think he might have something to do with Stephanie's murder."

"Really? Why would a man who likes boys, kill a girl? From what I've seen, the men who're ashamed of their preferences generally take out their anger and frustration on the boys they're lusting after, not the women in their lives."

"That would make a certain amount of sense," Catherine said. "But in this case, we think this man might be angry at a specific woman and is killing other women who resemble her, as sort of surrogates for her."

"Okay, I guess I could see that," Pauly said. "But it still doesn't explain why a man who likes other men would get so angry at a woman. Passion and anger come from the same place, you know? It just seems like, if this man really is homosexual, there should be another man involved somehow."

"You mean like a love triangle?" Nick suggested.

"That could be it," the boy said. "I could imagine a jilted lover being unable to bring himself to kill the man he's in love with or even the woman was he left for, so he kills other women who look like her."

"Or it could just be a matter of self-preservation," Nick said. "Assuming that all three of the people involved in this love triangle are members of society, killing one of them would draw too much attention. But who's going to miss a few dead 'whores'?"

"Thank you, Pauly, you've been a big help," Catherine said.

"You're welcome, I'm glad I could help."

Leaving the stage area, Catherine led Nick back to her small dressing room. Along the way, they passed the costume room, where they found Greg dressed in an outlandishly large "ten-gallon" hat, a pair of furry chaps and a low-slung gun belt, complete with a carved wooden gun.

"Hey, Nick, is this the way you dress when you're in Texas?" the boy asked as he strutted around the backstage area with an exaggerated swagger and practicing his "quick draw" skills. Warrick and Sara stood off to the side, trying very hard not to laugh.

"Yes, Greg, that's exactly the way everyone in Texas dresses," the former Ranger said dryly. "Even the women dress that way."

"Really? Even the women?"

Nick gave no answer, just rolled his eyes and walked away, while Warrick and Sara both finally burst out laughing.

"Greg, I thought you were supposed to be finding clothes for Nick," Catherine said pointedly.

"Oh, we are. I just wanted to see how it felt to be a cowboy."

"Well, you'd better put that costume back in the same place where you found it and I better not find a mess in there," the red-head called over her shoulder as she followed after Nick.

In her dressing room, Catherine directed Nick to remove his shirt, to prevent too much hair from getting on it, while she hunted around, looking for a pair of scissors. Finding the necessary implement, she turned back to face the young man and her attention was drawn to a small glint of gold against the stark white of his undershirt.

"What's this?" she murmured. Moving closer, she discovered it to be a small gold cross hanging from a slim leather cord. The tiny pendant seemed entirely too delicate for such a crude "chain" and the jewelry itself seemed rather out of place on the rough-edged young man.

Nick glanced down and saw what had caught Catherine's eye. "Oh, that, it belonged to my friend Kristy," he said a bit self-consciously.

"The one who was murdered?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah," Catherine repeated softly, laying a sympathetic hand on his arm, understanding better than any of the others precisely how the young man felt. "Don't worry, we'll find this butcher. We will make him pay for everything he's done."

Nick nodded mutely.

"Okay, have a seat," the red-head said, gesturing to the chair in front of the mirror and turning her mind resolutely back to the business at hand.

As the young man followed her directions, he asked, "Uh, have you ever cut hair before?"

"Yes, don't worry. I know what I'm doing. Trust me, I'm a woman of many talents," she assured him, draping a towel over his shoulders, to catch the hair as it fell.

"Alright..."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, well, you look like a right, proper gentleman now," Mrs. McGregor commented approvingly as she looked Nick up and down, when the group returned to Gil's house a few hours later.

Stepping into the foyer, the Texan held his arms out and turned around, giving the housekeeper the full view of his new evening attire. They had managed to find a formal evening suit that fit him reasonably well and after Catherine had made a few expert alterations, it appeared to have been made specifically for him, as would befit a gentleman of his supposed station. Machine-produced, ready-made garments were becoming more and more readily, and affordably, available to the general public, but a gentleman of high society would be expected to have all his clothing tailor-made for him.

With his now neatly trimmed and groomed hair, his smart evening suit and a new pair of boots and a topcoat, Nick did indeed look the part of the young gentleman of society. Catherine was quite proud of herself. Now they just needed to come up with the right story to explain his background.

Accepting Gil's invitation to join the group for dinner, Catherine told the others about the conversation she and Nick had had with Pauly Sullivan, during the meal. Everyone agreed that the love triangle theory was certainly a plausible one. The discussion then turned to the best way to explain Nick's presence in New York.

"You know, my Nana Anika always said that when coming up with a lie, it was always best to stay as close to the truth as possible. That way it was easier to remember," Greg commented.

"You mean, your grandmother, the confidence artist?" Nick asked, with a sly smile.

"Hey, say what you will, but she was pretty good at what she did," the boy said with a grin.

"Actually, she's right," Catherine said. "When we're creating a new character for the theater, we always strive to make the character as believable as possible. What's more believable than the truth? So, instead of saying that Nick is a distant relation, why not simply say that he's the son of a friend of the family? Your mother was originally from California, wasn't she, Gil?"

"Yes, and that was commonly known."

"So, it could be possible that your mother attended school with Nick's mother, somewhere out west? Texas, California, it's all pretty much the same thing to most people here in New York City."

"Well, my parents were both originally from Chicago, but I doubt anyone around here knows that, so yes, it could be possible," Nick said.

"Well, there we have it," Catherine said. "Your mother was a close friend of Gil's mother. They attended school together in California. Your father is a wealthy judge and cattle baron. You're here in New York to visit the son of your mother's good friend and see more of the country before you settle down and get married. Trust me, as soon as the mothers with unwed daughters hear the words 'wealthy' and 'unmarried', you'll be accepted without question. And as soon as the daughters take one look at your face, they won't object either."

"Oh, lovely," the Texan said ruefully.

"By the way, you do know how to dance, don't you?"

"Dance...?"

"Yes, dance. As a handsome, eligible, young man, you will be expected to dance at some point. Do you know how?"

"I know a couple of dances."

"Do you know how to waltz?"

"I know the steps," Nick said evasively. "I just haven't done it very much."

Catherine glanced over at Sara. "We'll have to work with him after dinner. A gentleman of society would know how to dance, and dance well."

"I don't know how to waltz," Gil commented.

"Why doesn't that surprised me?" Catherine asked. "Well, you would be the exception, Gil."

When dinner was finished, the group retired to the parlor, just off the foyer, where Gil had a small piano. Gil's mother had enjoyed playing the instrument before her hearing had begun to fail her in her later years. Now Warrick seated himself on the bench in front of the keyboard. The young man's maternal grandmother, a former slave, had been taught to play the piano by her mistress, to entertain guests at parties. After the war, Celia Brown had stayed on as a paid house keeper when the large, antebellum mansion had been converted to a hotel. In the evenings she was permitted to teach her grandson to play.

While Warrick played a few popular tunes, Catherine and Sara took turns dancing with the Texan. Gil and Greg sat off to the side and watched, occasionally offering a word or two of encouragement. As he had said, Nick was familiar with the steps to several different dances, but was considerably rusty. Fortunately for the toes of the two women, he proved to be a quick study and after only an hour or two, he was moving with the fluid grace of a seasoned dancer. Even Mrs. McGregor was convinced to abandon her dusting for a few minutes, to take a turn with the handsome young man.

"Alright, we've had the dress rehearsal. I think it's time for opening night," Catherine said. She was seated on the piano bench beside Warrick and was fanning herself with a sheaf of music. She was flushed and slightly out of breath from all the dancing.

"Good," Gil said, "Because I've already accepted several invitations. 'Opening night', as you put it, is tomorrow."

To be continued...

A/N: Yes, I know this is a rather short chapter and I apologize that it took so long to get it out, but things are a little stressful right now on the job front. But I am still working on this story. I will finish it, I promise: )


	7. Chapter 7

3/02/07

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 7

It was quite late when Mrs. McGregor ushered Catherine and Jim into Gil's study. The entomologist was sitting in his favorite leather wing-chair in front of the fireplace, nursing a snifter of brandy and brooding into the flames before him. He looked up as Catherine slid gracefully into the matching chair beside him and Jim dragged over the wooden chair from behind the desk. Both of the new arrivals looked exhausted.

"Any luck?" Gil asked, after he had offered them both drinks, which they had refused.

"Well, I had several dances with a gentleman by the name of Franklin Bauer tonight. Do you know him?" Catherine asked.

"Hmm, the name sounds vaguely familiar. What about him?"

"Well, it seems that he attended medical school for two years before his father died unexpectedly and he was forced to take over the family business. He seemed quite frustrated about having to give up his dream of becoming a doctor."

"Frustrated enough to kill?"

The red-head frowned slightly and shrugged.

"What about the cufflink angle? Bauer doesn't start with a 'D'," Gil pointed out.

"No, but I did learn that his mother's maiden name was Delancy. The cufflink could have been a family heirloom from her side of the family."

Gil cocked his head slightly to one side, considering this.

"It's weak, I know..." Catherine admitted.

"No more weak than the other names we've come up with so far," Gil said, gesturing toward the blackboard in the far corner of the room. There were only three names written on it and all were tenuous suspects at best.

"Did you and Nick have any better luck?" Jim asked.

"No, we didn't get anything."

"Where is our intrepid Ranger, by the way?"

"He already went to bed. I think he danced with every unmarried woman at the party, at least once. He was exhausted."

"I told you he'd be popular," Catherine said. "And how did you do?"

"Oh, well, you know Mrs. Carmichael, the self-proclaimed match-maker of New York society? She was at the party tonight and she told me that it was now going to be her life's work to find me a 'good woman'."

"Well, that should be interesting," Catherine said, smiling maliciously, and the three fell silent.

"Do you think we've got the wrong idea and we're just wasting our time?" Jim asked after a long moment.

"God, I hope not," Gil said quietly.

Along with Nick, the three had been attending parties for the past three weeks and had only four names to show for their efforts. Four names which were most likely going to lead them nowhere. And in the three weeks that they'd been looking, two more women had been brutally murdered.

"So, what's next?" Jim asked.

"Well, Nick and I are attending an engagement party tomorrow night."

"Engagement parties are good. They tend to draw in pretty good crowds of well-wishers," Catherine commented.

"That's what I'm hoping."

"So, who's the lucky couple?" Jim asked.

"Charles Weston, the son of James and Helen Weston, is the young man. I don't know who the girl is, apparently someone from out of state. But hopefully we can learn something there. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

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The smell of fear and desperation hung heavy over the ballroom room, like stale perfume. Oh, yes, there was nothing like an engagement announcement to strike fear into the hearts of every unwed girl and her mother. Another eligible bachelor had been plucked from the ever shrinking pool of potential candidates. Nick fancied he could actually see the anxiety written on the faces of the young women who circulated around the party like small packs of hunting wolves.

Snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, the Texan melted back into the shadows of a nearby window alcove. He had been a favorite target of those hunting packs all evening. After all, he was new blood, an untried commodity. It hadn't taken long for the word to spread that a new bachelor was in the city. He had danced more these past three weeks than he had in his entire life and he was growing tired of making small talk with vapid, shallow females, whose sole purpose in life was to find a good husband and give him fat babies. After spending so much time recently in the company of Sara and Catherine, and even Mrs. McGregor, Nick had learned the value of a woman who could think for herself and wasn't afraid to speak her mind.

He found himself thinking of Kristy. She hadn't been afraid to speak her mind either, and although she'd had far less education and training than either Sara or Catherine, Kristy had had a fire and a passion for life that easily matched both of those women.

Quickly pushing those unproductive thoughts aside, Nick reflected that this current situation was really no different than it would have been back home in Texas. Most of the females there had the same goals as these women. It was just that the outward trappings would have been different. The party would most likely have been held in someone's barn rather than a ballroom and there would have been far more gingham and flannel than satin and fine wool.

"So, are you hiding from the desperate females, too?" a low voice asked, from Nick's right, echoing his own thoughts.

The Texan turned to find a tall young man, a few years older than himself, standing nearby. He too was holding a glass of champagne and was gazing out at the dance floor with an expression of mild disgust. He had medium brown hair and dark, languid eyes. His classic, even features made him handsome, if a bit unremarkable.

"Yes," Nick replied, with a slight chuckle. "I was beginning to feel rather like a treed raccoon."

"An apropos analogy," the other man said, chuckling as well. "So, I gather that you hunt?"

"Some, when I have the time," Nick said truthfully.

"Ah, I, myself, am an avid hunter. I tell you, there's nothing like a good stalk and pursuit to get the blood pumping and remind oneself of how truly alive you are, don't you agree?"

The man turned to face Nick and the Texan saw a brief spark of something dark and hungry in the lazy eyes, before it was quickly suppressed. The man flashed a toothsome smile and extended his right hand.

"I'm Archer Dansforth, by the way," he said.

"Oh, uh, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dansforth," Nick said, automatically extending his own hand, still a bit shaken by his glimpse of... whatever. "I'm Nicholas Stokes."

"Yes, actually I already knew your name. We don't get too many new faces around here and, well, people talk. But please, let's not stand on formalities. Call me Archer."

"Thank you, call me Nick."

"Nick..." the man repeated. He was still smiling, but there was something about the way he pronounced the name that sent a slight shiver down the Texan's spine.

"Uh, are you associated with the bride or the groom?" Nick asked, forcing his mind back to the conversation.

"The groom. Charles and I were very close."

"Were? You're not any longer, uh, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, it's nothing like that, really, no falling out or anything. Charles and I were hunting partners, but now that he's getting married, I'm sure he won't have time for that any more. Once a woman domesticates a man, he's just never quite the same, is he?" Dansforth said, a note of contempt creeping into his words.

Abruptly the man's attitude seemed to change, to brighten, as though he had thrown aside a particularly unpleasant thought. "So, Nick, I understand you're from Texas?" he asked.

"Uh, yes, from the Dallas area."

"Dallas, really? Charles and I were just in the Dallas area a few months ago, to hunt buffalo. In fact, that's where Charles met Blythe. She's from Texas as well, you know."

"Really? No, no, I wasn't aware of that," Nick mumbled distractedly, his head spinning with all this new information.

"Oh, yes, I believe her family is in cattle as well. Perhaps you kn... Ah, speak of the devil, here comes the happy couple now."

Nick turned in the direction Dansforth was indicating with his raised glass, to see an attractive couple moving towards them. The man was about the same age as Dansforth, but shorter, with sandy brown hair and a narrow, matching mustache and fashionably long sideburns. The girl appeared to be barely out of her teens, but was rather tall, almost of a height with her fiancé, with a pretty, broad-cheeked face. Her dark hair was drawn over one shoulder in a cascade of tight ringlets and a spray of tiny, seed pearls. The dark mauve of her gown complemented her hair nicely and brought color to her porcelain complexion.

"Archer, there you are. We've been looking all over for you," Weston said as he and his fiancée drew close. "But who's this?" Weston asked coolly, his gaze sweeping over Nick.

"Oh, this is Nicholas Stokes. Nick, this is my good friend Charles Weston, the groom to be."

As Nick extended his right hand toward Weston, he was acutely aware of Dansforth's hand lightly touching the small of his back. It was a gesture of possession, one a man might make to his wife or fiancée. It was generally not a gesture a man would make to another man, particularly one he had only just met. Nick was also aware of Weston's eyes taking note of this gesture as well. The grip of the hand that was shaking Nick's abruptly grew painfully tight before it was released.

"Mr. Stokes, may I present my fiancée, Miss Blythe Howard," Weston said with a frosty smile.

Nick turned his attention to the girl, who smiled at him serenely, obviously blissfully unaware of the growing tensions between the three men. Blythe indeed, Nick thought, with wry amusement.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Stokes," Blythe said, her accent indicating the Deep South as apposed to the southwestern frontier. A Texas accent was slightly different from a true southern accent, more drawl, less twang. "The ladies have been all a-twitter about you. Now I see why."

She played the part of the coquettish Southern Belle to perfection as well and Nick wondered if she'd been educated in Georgia. It would make sense. There weren't too many proper girls' finishing schools in Texas.

"So, I understand that you are also from the great state of Texas," Miss Howard continued. "Isn't it a small world? To think, that in such a big city as New York, two lost souls from Texas should encounter each other here tonight. Where abouts in Texas are you from?"

"Uh, the Dallas area."

"Hmm, my family is from the Houston area, but I recently spent some time in Dallas visiting with friends. That's where I met Charles, in fact. But I seem to recall there was a judge in Dallas, by the name of Stokes. Are you related to him?"

"Uh, yes, he's a cousin of my father's."

"Ah, I see. It's always nice to have one's family close by," Miss Howard said, blindly accepting Nick's weak explanation. Clearly the girl wasn't accustomed to using her pretty, little head much.

Unfortunately the same could not be said for her fiancé.

"So, I understand you're staying with Mr. Grissom. What is your relationship with him?" Weston asked, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

The question was innocent enough, but Nick sensed there was actually more than one question being asked. He was beginning to grow very uncomfortable with this entire situation. He was not someone who was accustomed to this sort of fencing with words, particularly when he wasn't entirely sure what exactly was going on. Nick was far more accustomed to dealing with people who were fairly forthright and direct in both their manners and actions. Clearly the relationship between Charles Weston and Archer Dansforth was more complicated than it appeared and somehow Nick was being drawn into the middle of it and he definitely didn't like it.

"Uh, Mr. Grissom is a friend of the family," Nick said, sticking to the previously agreed upon story and the one that both he and Gil had been using for the past three weeks. "Our mothers attended finishing school together in California."

"Really? That seems a bit odd. Mr. Grissom is quite a bit older than you. I would think your mothers would be of a different age as well," Weston said.

"Well, I am the youngest of seven. My older brother is very close to Mr. Grissom's age."

"Ah, I see," Weston mumbled, sounding rather disappointed that he hadn't been able to catch Nick in a lie.

"Ah, the band is playing a waltz," Nick said, seizing upon any excuse to get away from this tense and awkward situation. "I'm afraid I promised Miss Martin that I would dance the next waltz with her. If you will excuse me, it would be terribly rude of me to stand her up. But it was a pleasure meeting all of you and I wish the two of you the best of luck on your coming nuptials."

The Texan tried very hard to keep his retreat slow and dignified. All he really wanted to do was run away, very far and very fast. Instead, he went in search of Grissom. Eventually Nick found the older man, ensconced in his own window alcove on the opposite side of the ballroom. He was doing much the same thing that Nick had been, sipping champagne and watching the crowds. Nick moved to stand beside him.

"I think I just found our butcher," he said quietly.

"What? Who?"

"Archer Dansforth."

"Dansforth..." Gil repeated the name, musing. "No, that can't be right. I know Archer Dansforth. He's one of the worst of High Society. His wealth is all inherited and he's never worked a day in his life. He spends all of his time indulging himself in sport and other useless pastimes. Killing someone would require entirely too much effort for him. Besides, he's had no medical training. Hell, he's had no training at all."

"No, but his sport of choice is hunting," Nick said. "We just had a little conversation where he told me how much he loves 'the stalk'. In fact, he and his very good friend Charles Weston, the groom to be, just recently returned from a hunting trip to Texas, which is where Weston met his new fiancée. Do also note that the future Mrs. Weston is a tall, pretty, brunette. Gil, like a doctor, a hunter would also know how to skin a corpse quickly and efficiently."

Gil slowly turned to look at the young Texan, his eyes wide. "My God..." he breathed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"My theory is that Dansforth and Weston were, uh... lovers," Nick said, a bit uncomfortably. It was the next day and he was addressing the assembled team in Gil's study. Despite the fact that Sara and Catherine themselves spoke openly about the subject of homosexuality, he was still uncomfortable mentioning it in front of them. Frankly, he didn't like talking about it at all, but a man didn't spend as much time on the cattle trails as Nick had without at least having heard about such activities.

"They went to Texas to hunt buffalo," he continued. "While they were there, Weston met Blythe Howard. He proposed to her. My guess is that this is what ignited Dansforth's rage. This is a man who has had everything simply handed to him his entire life. He is not accustomed to not getting his way. I also don't think he ever learned how to share. But he can't kill Miss Howard without drawing too much attention. So instead, he kills 'whores' who resemble her. I suspect this also allows him to vent his rage over and over. He would only be able to kill Miss Howard once."

"But why would Weston marry Miss Howard if he's in love with Dansforth?" Greg asked.

"Well, he can't marry Dansforth," Catherine pointed out. "And a man of Weston's social position would be expected to marry eventually. Otherwise people would start to talk. Miss Howard comes from a good, wealthy family. Financially speaking, it's a very good match. People in society have been marrying for money and position for generations. Archer Dansforth might be financially secure enough to turn his back on society's expectations and live in possible scandal, but I don't think Weston is."

"No, he isn't," Gil confirmed. "I made some discreet enquiries at the party after Nick told me his theory. Weston's family has taken some serious financial hits recently. Their business is hurting. Miss Howard is an only child. She, or more importantly, her husband, stands to inherit all of her father's considerable wealth when he dies. And from what I understand, Mr. Howard is not in good health. I think this was an opportunity that was simply too good for Weston to pass up. Unfortunately, I believe Dansforth saw it as a betrayal."

"Good work, both of you!" Jim said. "I like this theory. Dansforth is definitely a viable suspect. Unfortunately we have absolutely no hard proof with which to confront him."

"No, we don't," Gil admitted. "And therein lays the problem."

"The Dansforths are one of the wealthiest, most influential families in the state of New York. We're going to need some solid evidence if we're going to try to make any murder charges hold up in court."

"Yes, we're definitely going to need much more than what we have right now," Gil agreed.

"What do you suggest?" Catherine asked. "We've been waiting for the killer to give us something definitive to go on for weeks."

"I think we should have someone follow Dansforth. Perhaps we can get lucky and catch him in the act, preferably before he finishes it."

"That's an excellent idea, but I can't justify assigning any of my boys in blue without a hell of a lot more evidence," Jim said.

"Well then, we'll just have to do it ourselves."

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For the next couple of days, the members of the team took turns watching and following Archer Dansforth. It wasn't a difficult task, since Dansforth rarely left his family's townhouse on the Upper East Side. It was also easy for the team to keep the large house under surveillance as it faced Central Park. The team members would simply watch from the ample cover of the park.

They had observed Dansforth come outside to smoke his cigars on several occasions, but that was all. They collected a few of the stubs which he had left on the sidewalk and found them to be the same brand as the stub Gil had found beside Stephanie Watson's body, Hoja de Oro. Unfortunately this didn't help them much, as the tobacconist Gil and Jim had spoken to earlier had already indicated that is was not an unusual brand, particularly for an upscale part of the city.

It was early on the afternoon of the third day of this surveillance that found Gil and Catherine on watch duty. They were seated on a bench just inside the park, facing the Dansforth house. For all appearances they were simply another handsome couple out enjoying the late autumn colors and unusually mild weather.

They had only been on watch for about an hour, but in that time they had observed a great deal of activity in and around the elegant townhouse. There were servants coming and going from the carriage house, at the rear of the townhouse, carrying boxes and trunks. But, so far, there had been no sign of Archer Dansforth all day. Nick and Warrick, who had had the previous watch, had reported that Cynthia Dansforth, Archer's mother, had left very early that morning, but the two young men had not spotted the elusive, younger Mr. Dansforth either. As Gil and Catherine sat watching all the activity around the house, the red-head was forced to stifle a yawn behind one gloved hand.

"Are you bored already?" Gil asked, with a slight smile.

"I'm extremely bored," Catherine said with a sigh of frustration. "This is so tedious. I certainly don't wish for another girl to be harmed, but I have to admit, I wish the man would do something. We've been watching him for three days now. You don't suppose he knows that we're out here, do you?"

This was a thought that had occurred to Gil as well, but one he had refused to voice. "He always seems so supremely oblivious to the world around him," the scientist observed. "He doesn't appear to have noticed us."

"That doesn't mean anything. Maybe he's a good actor. You know, Gil, he may be just toying with us. Maybe he's been sneaking out the back servants' entrance all along."

Gil contemplated this for a moment. "No, there've been no other murders since we started watching him... Besides, I don't even want to consider the idea that this 'butcher' could be smarter than all of us."

As they had been speaking a black, horse-drawn hansom cab had pulled up to the curb just in front of the bench where the couple was sitting. Now, a tall, plump-ish woman in a gray tweed suit climbed down from the cab. As the small carriage moved on and the woman prepared to cross the street, she happened to glance over at the couple on the bench.

"Mr. Grissom?" she called out, stepping closer.

Gil looked up to find Cynthia Dansforth standing in front of him. She was a handsome woman, with hair gone prematurely white and the mild, complacent, blue eyes of one who has never known a day of worry in her life.

"Why, Mrs. Dansforth," Gil said, getting quickly to his feet and affecting an attitude of surprise. "What an unexpected delight this is, bumping into you."

"Unexpected? Nonsense, I live right over there! You know that, you silly man!" The woman said playfully, gesturing to the townhouse on the other side of the street.

"Oh, why, yes, you do! I'd forgotten that. It's been a while since I've been to your lovely home."

"And whose fault is that?" Mrs. Dansforth said, with mock severity. Turning to Catherine, who had risen to her feet as well, Cynthia said, "Why, it's... Mrs. Willows, isn't it? How nice to see you again. We met at Sam Braun's annual dinner party, last spring, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was, and it's very kind of you to remember me," Catherine said, with a slight curtsy to the older woman.

"Mmm, yes," Mrs. Dansforth murmured, her expression somewhat cool. She quickly turned her attention back to Gil. "Mr. Grissom, you really do need to sell that house of yours by Washington Square Park and come and live here near all of us. Then we could see you all the time. It's been such a lovely change having you attending our parties again, as you used to do when your mother was alive. We've missed you terribly and, really, isn't it time you settled down and married a decent, young woman?"

"Uh, yes, well..."

"Oh, you must come to our country house this weekend! We're having guests up for a long weekend of hunting and sport. You know, allow people the chance to get out of the city for a few days. Our country home is upstate, in the Adirondacks. We've invited several people already, including a few unattached young ladies... Oh, speaking of unattached, you must bring along your charming, young friend, Mr. Stokes!

"Oh, such a delightful, young man! I know Archer was very impressed with him, thought he was quite a decent companion. And you know how high my son's standards are... Oh, and you must come along as well, Mrs. Willows," Mrs. Dansforth added, almost as an afterthought, perhaps belatedly realizing that it would be rude to invite Gil in front of Catherine and not include her in the invitation.

Seeing that the woman had finally paused in her speech long enough to draw a breath, Gil quickly cut in with his answer. "Yes, Mrs. Willows and I would love to come to your country house. And I think I can safely accept for Mr. Stokes as well. I'm quite sure he'd also be delighted to come along."

"Excellent! We'll be expecting the three of you on Thursday. I'll send Anthony over with instructions on how to get there, right away. Oh, this is going to be a lovely weekend. I can hardly wait! Oh, I must be off, but I'll see you on Thursday!"

Once Mrs. Dansforth was across the street and well out of earshot, Catherine began a scornful, mocking imitation of the woman's rather high voice. "'Isn't it time you settled down and married a decent, young woman'... Arrogant cow..." the red-head grumbled.

Gil looked at his companion in confusion. He hadn't seen any reason why Catherine should have been offended by that comment. Seeing his confusion, she elaborated.

"We were sitting here, alone, together. For all that woman knew, you and I were here for an assignation. But I'm sure someone like Cynthia Dansforth wouldn't consider me a 'decent' young woman..."

Gil sighed and shook his head, amazed at the many ways in which women wounded each other with words. "That's not important, Catherine. What matters is that we've all been invited to their country estate."

"Yes, why did you accept that invitation? What are you up to, Gil?"

"Well, I would presume if the elder Dansforths are going to their country house, Archer will be going with them. It would be customary. One wouldn't want to leave an unmarried young man, alone and unsupervised, in the city. Think of the trouble he could get into...

"And if Archer is going to be upstate, we should be there as well. At least this way we can keep an eye on him without having to sneak around."

"Alright, I can see that," Catherine said. "But what about the rest of the team? They weren't invited."

"Don't worry, I think I know how we can bring all of them along as well. Come along, let's head back to my house and tell the others. I really don't think Dansforth will be going anywhere with both of his parents right there. We'll continue to watch the house at night, but this seems to be a waste of our time and we have some planning to do."

Flagging down a passing cab, the two headed back downtown. After dropping Catherine off at her house, with instructions to come for dinner, Gil continued on to his own home. He dispatched Greg to Police Headquarters, with a dinner invitation for Jim as well. And when the team gathered for dinner in the formal dining room later that evening, Gil informed them of his plan for the upcoming weekend.

"As this little trip is going to last for more than one night, it would be expected that the guests would bring along a servant of their own," Gil said. "I mean, a gentleman does not travel without his valet."

"But you don't employ a valet," Jim pointed out.

"For this weekend I'll have one, Warrick. And Greg can act as Nick's valet."

"Oh, and I can act as Catherine's maid!" Sara said quickly, before anyone could even suggest that she remain behind.

"Very good," Gil said, smiling smugly. "It's all settled then."

"But what about me?" Jim asked, in an exaggeratedly hurt tone. "Who do I get to play?"

"I'm sorry, Jim, but I just couldn't come up with a role for you. You're too well known as a police officer. I'm afraid you'll have to wait in the wings this time."

The captain sighed dramatically. "Ah, yes, it's the story of my life... I'll let the local law enforcement know that I'm going to be in the area for a few days and to possibly expect some trouble."

"Good idea," the scientist said. He turned to address the group at large. "I suggest we all start packing."

To be continued...

A/N: Yes, once again, I apologize for taking so long, but well, life happens. : D


	8. Chapter 8

3/28/07

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 8

From Grand Central Station, the six members of the team boarded the train to Saratoga Springs, a straight shot north from the city. The train was crowded, as the resort town, with its casinos and spas, was a popular destination with people looking to get out of the city for the weekend. It was decided that Capt. Brass would follow the group on a later train, so he would not be seen traveling with them.

Some four hours later, they got off at the Saratoga Springs station. There they hired a carriage to take them the rest of the way north to Queensbury, a former Quaker settlement where the Dansforths had their country home. The house was an old stone farmhouse that had been enlarged into a mansion, in obvious imitation of the country estates of England. It was located on the outskirts of the town and sat on nearly 100 wooded acres. The Adirondack Mountains made a picturesque backdrop in the near distance.

The team's arrival was greeted with much activity, as most of the other guests were arriving at the same time. The invited guests were directed up to the second floor, to their respective rooms, while the "servants" were directed to servants' wing of the huge house.

The servants' wing was crowded and chaotic. Sara was directed by a tall, severe-looking head housekeeper to a small bedroom, which she was told she would share with "Elsie", a scullery maid who worked at the house, and "Maggie", Mrs. Dansforth's maid. Sara was given only enough time to drop her small carpet bag off on one of the four cots in the room, before she was expected to be back upstairs to help Catherine unpack and change for the formal dinner, which was already being prepared in the large kitchen.

The room Catherine had been assigned was somewhat small, but sumptuously appointed. The large, four-poster bed was piled high with a feather bed and several warm quilts. Thick, warm rugs covered the hardwood floors and a cheerful fire was already crackling merrily in the room's fireplace. The temperature had dropped dramatically with their journey north and the crisp air outside the house smelled of impending snow.

After helping with the unpacking, Sara assisted Catherine into the deep green satin gown she would wear that evening. It was a sleeveless gown which showed off plenty of the actress' pale skin and the color complemented her red hair. She also wore white, elbow-length gloves and a white satin wrap to ward off the early November chill. As Catherine couldn't afford much jewelry, she wore only a pair of simple pearl earrings, which Sam Braun had given to her.

After checking to make sure that her "costume" was perfectly in place, Catherine thanked Sara for her help and headed down to mingle with the other guests. Sara straightened up the room and banked the fire, as a good servant would, before she headed back to the servants' wing for her own supper.

By the time the guests sat down at the long table in the formal dining room, thick, fat flakes of snow had begun to fall outside. The conversations during dinner were kept to properly benign topics, the hunt the next morning, the weather and such. How long would the snow keep up? Would it accumulate much?

Seated across from Archer Dansforth, Nick was able to discreetly watch the man throughout dinner. The Texan quickly noted the way the other man's eyes would glaze over whenever one of the ladies spoke to the group at large. Catherine was seated on Dansforth's right, but he barely spoke to her during the entire meal. He was much more attentive to Gil, who was seated on his left. As this was a hunting party, there were understandably more men present than women, so the hostess had been unable to preserve the usual, alternating male-female seating arrangements and was forced to seat two men side by side.

At first Nick thought Dansforth's reluctance to speak to Catherine might have been a snub to her social status, but none of the other guests seemed inclined to make an issue of this and Dansforth seemed to be snubbing all of the ladies equally. Glancing toward the head of the table, Nick noted that the elder Mr. Dansforth seemed to be similarly ignoring the ladies. Hmm, like father, like son?

At the conclusion of dinner, in the long-held, chauvinist tradition, the ladies rose from the table and retired to the drawing room, to play cards and gossip, while the men remained at the table to smoke cigars, drink brandy, and gossip.

As James Dansforth was pouring out the drinks for his guests, he turned to Nick and asked, "So, would the Texan prefer a whiskey to a brandy? I understand that is the drink of choice out west."

"Um, yes, actually I would," Nick responded. "I'm not really much of a brandy drinker."

Accepting the glass of amber liquid that the elder Dansforth handed him, Nick stood from the table and drifted over to one of the large dining room windows. The conversation had turned to business ventures and the young Texan had little interest in the subject. He was much more interested in the snow which was continuing to fall thick and heavy outside. The grounds were now coated with a thin layer of white.

Nick had been told that it had snowed once in Dallas, when he was a child, but he'd been too young to remember it. So, for all purposes, he was seeing snow for the first time and he was fascinated by it. He hadn't realized it could be so beautiful or that it could induce such a feeling of peacefulness. He didn't understand why anyone would choose to live in New York City if they had this incredible setting to live in. Why would anyone leave this if they didn't have to?

"Have you ever seen snow before?" a low voice asked, from Nick's right.

The Texan turned to find Archer Dansforth standing close at his right elbow. The other man was staring out at the snow as well.

"Uh, no, not really."

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Very. I had no idea it could be so beautiful."

"Well, I'm glad that you, at least, appreciate it."

"Excuse me?" Nick asked, confused by the cryptic statement.

"Oh, all Miss Howard has done since she came to New York is whine about how cold it is," Dansforth said contemptuously.

"I take it that you don't like Miss Howard?"

"Oh, I suppose she's no worse than any other woman. They all need something to complain about or they're not happy, are they?"

Nick made no comment, unsure of how to respond to this statement. He didn't want to argue with the man and possibly alienate him. The more comfortable the man felt talking to him, the more he might reveal. But at the same time, Nick was reluctant to give the man too much encouragement, unsure of how this encouragement might be interpreted. Given the man's instability, it was a situation that could possibly become dangerous.

"Do you see that small hill, just past that clump of trees?" Dansforth asked, moving even closer to Nick and gesturing out toward the forest beyond the estate's manicured lawn.

Feeling the other man's hand once again resting familiarly on his lower back, Nick fought the urge to take several steps away from him. "Uh, yes, I see it."

"There's a wonderful spot near there where the deer often pass through. I've bagged at least three bucks there over the past few years. I know these woods like the back of my hand. Stick with me tomorrow when we head out. I'll make sure you get something."

Before Nick could think of a reply to this offer, the men were interrupted by a knock on the dining room door. A moment later, it opened and Mrs. Dansforth stepped into the room.

"Gentlemen, I'm so sorry to interrupt your masculine endeavors, but some of the ladies and I would like to start a game of bridge, but we have an uneven number. Would some of you gentlemen care to join us?" the hostess asked.

"Cynthia, we'll join you ladies when we're good and ready. Now, go back to your guests," James Dansforth said, his tone patronizing.

It was becoming very apparent to Nick where Archer had learned to devalue and despise women. Guests or not, if Nick's father had spoken to his mother in that tone of voice, he'd have found himself spending the night in the barn. But Cynthia Dansforth simply responded with a meek, "Yes, Dear," and left the room.

Turning back to the other men at the table, James Dansforth said with a chuckle, "Women, they're so like children. You have to keep a firm hand with them."

While the rest of the group laughed good-naturedly, Nick and Gil exchanged significant glances.

"Come, I guess we should go and be sociable with the ladies," James said, with a sigh, rising ponderously to his feet. He was a large man, very tall and equally broad.

Later that night, after helping Catherine change into her nightdress, Sara returned to her little, assigned room and found Elsie, a large, red-faced, young woman, already asleep and snoring loudly. Sara had only just pulled on her own nightdress and climbed into her narrow cot, when Maggie entered the room. She was a petite girl, about sixteen or seventeen years old, with mousy brown hair.

Glancing over at Elsie's snoring form for a moment, Maggie turned to Sara and rolled her eyes, saying, "I always get stuck sharing a room with her and she always snores like that. I'm Maggie, by the way. You must be Sara."

"Yes, it's nice to meet you, Maggie," Sara said, speaking softly, so as not to wake the sleeping woman.

"Oh, you don't need to keep your voice down. Nothing short of an earthquake will wake her up. So, you're Mrs. Willows' maid, aren't you?"

"Right again."

"She's an actress, isn't she?"

"Yes."

"It must be exciting to be the maid of an actress, getting to see all those plays and those wonderful costumes. It would certainly have to be more exciting than being Mrs. Dansforth's maid."

Sara smiled at the other girl, leaning back on her propped up pillow. "Mrs. Dansforth isn't exciting? She certainly goes to plenty of parties."

"Oh, she goes to parties, but Mrs. Willows has much more beautiful clothes," Maggie said, stripping off her own plain, black dress. "You've seen Mrs. Dansforth's clothes. They're terribly out of date. I mean, here's Mr. Dansforth, one of the richest men in the city, and yet, he begrudges every cent his wife spends on herself. Oh, he'll pay for Master Archer to gallivant all over the world, killing things, but God forbid that his wife wants to buy a new dress."

"Hmm, sounds like Mr. Dansforth isn't very attentive to his wife."

"Oh, he treats her horribly. So, does Master Archer. He has no respect at all for his mother. Of course, Master Archer has no respect for any woman. He treats us all horribly."

"Maggie, have you ever seen Mr. Archer get violent with a woman?" Sara asked.

"Oh, no, nothing like that! Of course, I've rarely ever seen Master Archer with a woman," Maggie said with a cheeky smile.

Deciding to play the innocent, Sara asked, "What do you mean?"

Glancing over at Elsie, to make sure the other woman was still asleep, Maggie said, "Well, it's common knowledge among the Dansforth's servants that Master Archer likes other men. If you know what I mean…"

"You mean… Oh!" Sara gasped, feigning wide-eyed shock and surprise.

"That's right!" the other girl said smiling broadly. "In fact, more than one servant can tell you stories about accidentally walking in on Master Archer and young Mr. Weston in… compromising situations."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes, we've all been threatened with being sacked if we so much as breathed a word about it. So, you can't tell anyone!"

"Oh, no, of course not!" Sara said quickly, hoping the girl would understand when she inevitably had to break that promise.

Maggie finished changing into her nightdress and extinguished the room's single kerosene lamp. The old house was too far out in the country to have electricity or even gas available to it. The girl climbed into bed and after she and Sara had whispered their good-nights, they both closed their eyes to sleep.

Upstairs, in the guest bedrooms, the men were only just heading to bed, the women having retired long before them. Nick found Greg napping on the large brass bed in his room, but the boy roused quickly when the Texan entered.

"Warrick said that I was supposed to wait in here for you, to help you get ready for bed, but I didn't know what I was supposed to do in the meantime and I got bored waiting," Greg explained, a bit sheepishly.

"That's alright," Nick said. "I certainly don't know what you were supposed to do and I really don't need any help getting ready for bed. I've been managing just fine on my own for over twenty years now."

"Well, that's what I figured, but we have to keep up appearances."

"Good point," the Texan said, starting to strip out of his evening clothes.

He slipped off the jacket and draped it over the back of a nearby chair. The next things to go were the white tie and stiff, formal collar. Sitting down in the chair, Nick began taking off his shoes. They were uncomfortable as hell, but at least he hadn't had to do any dancing tonight. He had just finished removing both shoes and socks and was stretching his bare feet out toward the fire, when there was a light tap at the door.

"Come in," he called softly, too tired to stand and move to the door.

It opened and Archer Dansforth stepped into the room. The tall, young man threw a slightly disdainful glance at Greg, who was still sitting on the bed. The boy quickly slipped off and busied himself with turning down the quilts and fluffing the pillows.

"Ah, Nick, I just thought I'd stop in and make sure that the room is to your liking," Dansforth said. "I take it that you have everything you need?"

"Yes, yes, everything is perfect, thank you," Nick said.

"Excellent!"

There was a moment of awkward silence and Dansforth turned to give Greg another pointed look. The boy glanced over to Nick, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Ignoring Dansforth, Greg walked past the man and began picking up stray articles of Nick's clothing and hanging them up in the wardrobe, and deliberately not leaving the room. If Dansforth was irritated by the boy's behavior, he hid it well.

Smiling at Nick, he said, "Well then, I'll let you get to bed. We have an early start tomorrow and you'll want to be well rested. Remember, I promised to get you deer."

"I'm looking forward to it. Good night."

Once the door had closed behind Dansforth, Nick heaved a sigh of relief and allowed his tense body to sag back into the chair.

"That guy is so creepy. I don't know how you can stand to be around him," Greg said.

"It's not easy. He's been following me around all evening, making irritating small talk and finding every little excuse to touch me." Remembering this, Nick couldn't suppress a small shudder from passing through his body.

"Gee, and tomorrow, you get to spend the entire day with him."

"Don't remind me."

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The men heading out on the hunt the next morning were greeted with several inches of freshly fallen snow. Bundling up in their warmest clothes, they headed out into the pre-dawn darkness. There were six of them in the party, both of the Dansforth men, Nick, Charles Weston and two other young, male guests, friends of Charles and Archer. Gil had opted to stay behind with the ladies, claiming that he was not particularly fond of guns. More than anything, he had simply been looking for an opportunity to speak with Catherine and the others in relative privacy. The ladies would be staying in bed late, enjoying the chance to catch up on beauty rest, so there wouldn't be many guests or servants up and about to notice who was doing what.

Outside, in the darkness, the six men trudged through the snow into the woods that surrounded the Dansforth's house. Not far into the dense forest, they came upon several divergent paths. They stopped to make their plans for the morning.

"I think we should split up here," Archer said. "There's entirely too many of us to try and stay together. We'll sound like a herd of elephants. I propose that Nick and I take the north path. Father, why don't you and Charles take the west path. Michael, Daniel, you two take the east path."

"Excellent idea, Son," James Dansforth said. "Come, Charles, let's go. I know the perfect spot where we can lie in wait."

Nick noted that Weston seemed a bit reluctant to leave. He threw a hard look at both Nick and Archer in turn, before he spun on his heel and stalked after the elder Dansforth. Nick watched as the other two men departed as well and felt a small flutter of fear in this stomach. He was now alone with Archer Dansforth, the man they suspected of killing countless young women, including Kristy. An image of Kristy's smiling face drifted through his mind and Nick felt the fear resolve itself into smoldering anger. He turned to face Dansforth with determination.

"Where to now?" Nick asked quietly.

Dansforth smiled at him. "This way. I also know of a… 'perfect spot'."

Following a step or two behind the taller man, deeper into the woods, Nick kept his head about him and made sure to take careful note of his surroundings. These woods were completely unfamiliar to him and he wasn't about to simply blindly follow wherever the other man led him. Nick was an experienced woodsman and tracker and, even in the dark, he could use those skills to make sure that, if necessary, he would be able to find his own way back to the house. He had no idea what Dansforth had planned for him and Nick wanted to be ready for anything.

He shifted the strap of the borrowed rifle higher on his shoulder then slipped one hand into his pocket, where he'd stashed the small Derringer. The big Bowie knife was hanging from his belt. Nick wasn't taking any chances. He had no idea what other weapons Dansforth might be carrying besides his own hunting rifle. They continued on into the woods for nearly an hour, the sky growing slowly, but steadily lighter. Shadows and outlines were beginning to stand out from the deeper darkness.

"Are we close to this 'perfect spot'?" Nick asked. "Dawn is close. That's when the deer are the most active. Shouldn't we be getting into position?"

"Yes, yes, we're close, but I want to stop someplace first," Dansforth said. "It's just this way a little further."

They trudged through the snow for another half mile or so. They rounded a bend in the path and up ahead, Nick saw a small, wood cabin nestled among the evergreen trees. The little house was dark and silent and no smoke issued from the chimney. It appeared to be abandoned.

"What's this?" Nick asked.

"This is the old gamekeeper's cabin. We haven't had a gamekeeper in several years, not since old McKenzie died. So, I sometimes use the cabin, as a sort of refuge from my parents. They can be a bit trying at times. And sometimes a man needs his own space. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"There's something I want to show you. It'll only take a few minutes."

"Alright."

They continued on to the cabin. It was cold and dark, but appeared to be in fairly good condition. Dansforth had obviously been keeping it up over the years. Once inside, Archer lit a couple of kerosene lamps and Nick saw that the little house was neat and homey, if a bit bare. A large, simple, wooden bed dominated the cabin's single room. The bed was piled with blankets and quilts. There was wood stacked neatly beside the hearth of the fireplace. A steeply pitched stairway in one corner led up to a small loft area. After looking around the room for several minutes, Nick turned to find Dansforth kneeling in front of the hearth, busying himself with starting a fire.

"What are you doing?" Nick asked. "I thought we were only going to be here for a few minutes?"

"It's cold in here. We can warm up for a bit while we look."

Within minutes, a warm, cheery fire was crackling in the fireplace. Dansforth stood and brushed the dirt and soot off his hands.

"Why don't you sit down and enjoy the fire? I'll just be a few minutes," he said, moving to the ladder and climbing up to the loft.

Left alone downstairs, Nick wandered around the room, glancing into baskets and looking on bookshelves. If this cabin was some kind of hideout of Dansforth's, this might be where he had stashed the skins he had taken from the women he'd murdered. Unfortunately, Nick didn't find anything except plenty of dust and the bodies of several small animals that had been stuffed. It seemed that Dansforth used the cabin as a place to practice taxidermy.

After a few minutes, Dansforth returned. He came down the stairs carrying something large under a cloth. He moved to a small nearby table and set the mysterious something down on it. He turned back to Nick with a smile and gestured for the other man to move closer.

"I see you found my collection," he said, gesturing to a bookcase filled with dead animals. "I've been working at it for a couple of years now. I think I've gotten pretty good. But this one is my best so far."

Looking somewhat like a child showing off for his parents, Archer smiled and pulled the cloth off the object it was concealing. Looking at it, Nick felt his stomach give a slight lurch, but he managed to control his reaction. With a bit of an effort, he kept his face carefully neutral.

On the table before him was an elaborate diorama, a recreation of a scene from nature. Except this was like nothing from the natural world at all. Dansforth had made a small replica of an oak tree. It stood about a foot and a half high. Perched on one unusually extended branch, was a stuffed bird. As this bird was real, it was disproportionately large, compared to the miniature tree. But these incorrect proportions were only part of what made the diorama so unnerving.

The bird's body was the glossy black of a crow, while the wings were the brilliant red of a cardinal and the head was the deep purple of a martin. Dansforth had obviously taken these various parts from three different birds and combined them together to create something new.

Nick had always found taxidermy to be a morbid hobby. He had never understood why hunters chose to stuff and mount the heads, or entire bodies, of their kills. To him, it seemed crude and barbaric, but it had never disturbed him on the same level as this small bird-creation of Dansforth's did. The very idea that the man had taken the body parts of different dead animals and had sewn them together to create a new "species" was somehow deeply offensive to Nick. It was almost as if Archer Dansforth was trying to play God. Nick was uncomfortably reminded of the disturbing novel "Frankenstein" by Mary Shelley that he'd read a few years ago.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Dansforth asked quietly, gazing down fondly at his creation.

"It's… it's interesting."

"You don't like it?" Archer said, turning to face Nick, his expression disappointed.

"Uh, I…"

"Never mind," Dansforth said quickly, turning away from Nick and tossing the cloth back over the diorama. "I shouldn't have shown you. I just thought that you would understand."

"Understand what?"

"Understand how I feel, understand my frustrations and my desires…"

Dansforth turned to face Nick again. The man's expression was intent, almost challenging. He moved to stand quite close to the Texan and Nick had to force himself to hold his ground and not take a step back. Dansforth was several inches taller than Nick and he was deliberately crowding the smaller man, forcing him to tilt his head back slightly in order to maintain eye contact. The position was awkward and Nick was very much aware of how it left his neck exposed and vulnerable.

"I fascinate you, don't I?" Archer asked quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come now, Nick. Last night, during dinner, you could barely keep your eyes off of me."

Nick looked away quickly. He had been staring at Dansforth last night, but not for the reasons the man obviously thought. Nick wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want to anger the man, but he also didn't want to encourage him. And he very much wanted to get out of this cabin.

"We should get back on the trail," he said. "The others might wonder where we are."

"The others will already be in their positions. They'll assume that we are as well. These woods are very big. Don't worry, they'll have no idea what we might be doing."

"What are we doing?"

Archer raised a hand and lightly brushed his fingertips along Nick's jaw line. "Are you really that naïve, Nick?"

"I think Charles might suspect something," Nick said, stepping back a few paces.

"Yes, Charles…" Archer said, letting his hand drop back to his side. "You needn't be concerned about Charles. He's not in a position to be pointing any fingers. He'll keep his mouth shut."

"That's not my only concern. I don't wish to be dragged into the middle of something. I don't like being a third wheel and I definitely don't like being used as leverage," Nick said, praying that he was playing this situation correctly.

Archer nodded. "Yes, I understand your feelings and you needn't be concerned about that either. It's over between Charles and me."

"Does he know that?"

"It was his choice. He's the one who decided to marry that simpering, little, southern whore!"

"Perhaps he was merely trying to save his family's business. I understand they've taken a few hits recently. Miss Howard is very rich."

"I would have helped him. But no, he decided it would look better if he were to get married. Well, I also don't like being a third wheel and I am definitely not any man's 'mistress'! He made his choice. He can live with it. So, as you can see, there is nothing standing between us."

To illustrate this point, Archer stepped closer, to tower over Nick again.

"Nothing?" the Texan repeated. "That's an awful lot of emotion to call 'nothing'. No, thank you, Archer, I prefer my relationships to be much less complicated. I like things simple and straight-forward. This is all entirely too messy for me."

Nick took another step back from the taller man and walked away, to stand over by the fireplace. Keeping his back to the other man, he held his chilled hands out toward the flames. Although he appeared to have dismissed the taller man from his mind, Nick was very much aware of Archer's every movement and his body was tense, ready to defend himself if necessary.

"So, that's it? You're refusing me?" Dansforth asked, his voice quiet and strained.

"Yes," Nick answered, keeping his tone light.

He turned back to face Dansforth. The man was standing with his fists clenched tightly at his sides. It was obvious that no one had ever dared to refuse him before and Nick couldn't help feeling a slight note of satisfaction at this. It died quickly, however, when he saw the look of absolute rage twist the other man's features. Nick's hand moved reflexively to his pocket and the concealed Derringer, but the weapon proved unnecessary when Dansforth simply turned and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the flimsy door behind him.

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The sun was just beginning to creep up over the eastern horizon and the farmhouse-turned-mansion was quiet, the hostess and her guests still in bed… well, most of her guests. Gil, Greg and Warrick moved as silently as the old, creaking floorboards allowed, toward Catherine's room. Gil knocked softly on the door. Catherine had apparently been waiting for them, as she responded almost immediately, calling softly for them to enter.

They found the red-head in her dressing gown, seated at a small round table, with a pot of coffee, several cups and a plate piled high with freshly baked biscuits. Sara sat across from her, already dressed in her plain, black, "maid's" dress. The two women smiled as the men entered.

"Come and join us," Catherine said. "These biscuits are heavenly."

There wasn't enough room for all three of the men at the small table, so Greg took his cup and biscuit and sat on the floor in front of the fire. The group munched on their breakfast in silence for a few minutes.

After a moment, Gil asked, "Alright, what have we all learned?"

"Well, I spoke to Maggie, Mrs. Dansforth's maid and she confirmed that Archer Dansforth and Charles Weston were definitely lovers," Sara said.

"Yeah, Greg and I got the same story from some of the other servants," Warrick said. "They also confirmed that Dansforth has quite a temper. Apparently a few years ago, he got angry at one of the chambermaids and he twisted her arm so hard, he broke it."

"Really? Maggie said that she'd never seen him get violent with a woman," Sara said.

"Yeah, well, apparently the girl was dismissed that very day and the other servants who witnessed the incident were paid to keep quiet, by Mr. Dansforth. If Maggie wasn't present, she probably didn't know about it."

"I got similar stories from some of the other servants," Greg said. "Frankly, I don't know how the Dansforths can still be so rich, when Mr. Dansforth has to keep bribing his own servants to keep quiet about his son's tantrums."

"These violent outbursts, are they always directed at women?" Gil asked.

"Not always, but primarily, yes," Greg said.

"Yes, it's becoming very clear that neither of the Dansforth men is particularly fond of women," Catherine said sourly.

"Have either of you learned anything useful?" Warrick asked.

"Unfortunately, no," Gil said. "Nick is the one who should answer that question. I haven't had an opportunity to speak to him privately yet, but Archer has been staying pretty close to him."

"You can say that again," Greg said. "Last night, after everyone went to bed, Dansforth came to Nick's room. He claimed that he just wanted to make sure the room was up to Nick's standards, but the guy practically told me to get out, so he could be alone with Nick."

"You didn't leave them alone, did you?" Catherine asked.

"Nick didn't seem too keen on that idea, so no, I stayed in the room and tried to look busy. Dansforth seemed to get the hint and he left."

"Yes, I'd suspected that Dansforth was developing an attachment to Nick," Gil said thoughtfully. "This could be an interesting development."

"In a good way or a bad way?" Sara asked.

"That remains to be seen. Hopefully Nick will have some more insights for us when he gets back from the hunt."

"Well, it's a good thing there was a whole group of them that went," Catherine said. "That way, at least Nick won't have to be alone with Dansforth."

"Yes," Gil agreed. "That would probably not be a pleasant situation for Nick."

To be concluded…

A/N: Okay, yes, once again, I apologize for taking so long with this chapter. But a lot's been going on in the real world (damn that reality), including a new computer and the inability to access the internet from the new computer. Anyway, I must also apologize for not responding to everyone's feedback. That I can only blame on the fact that I'm basically really, really lazy. But I do appreciate the feedback. Thank you all!


	9. Chapter 9

4/8/07

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 9

When Nick returned to the house alone, later that morning, he found that the others were already there. Apparently none of them had gone as deep into the woods as he and Archer had. When he was asked why Archer was not with him, Nick explained that the other man had shot and wounded a buck and he had set off alone to track it. Everyone accepted this explanation without question.

"Archer spent most of his childhood in those woods," Mrs. Dansforth said confidently. "He knows them like he knows his own bedroom. He'll be fine."

The others were just sitting down to a late breakfast and Nick joined them. As he slipped into an empty chair across from Gil, he met the older man's eyes and gave a slight nod of his head. Nick had plenty to tell the rest of the team.

After breakfast, Archer had still not returned. Nick excused himself and went upstairs to clean up and change his clothes. He found Greg and Warrick already in the room waiting for him and Gil joined the younger men a few minutes later.

"So, come on, tell us, what happened?" Greg was asking as Gil slipped into the room.

The three young men were seated on the floor in front of the fire. Nick was still feeling a little chilled from his morning spent outside. Gil moved to sit in a chair near them.

"We headed out into the woods," Nick began. "Archer suggested that we all split up, so we'd make less noise. He and I went one way and the others paired up and went in two other directions. Archer took me to this little cabin, deep in the woods. He said it belonged to the family's old gamekeeper. Anyway, while we were there, he… made a pass at me."

"Eww, did he kiss you?" Greg asked.

"No, I didn't let it get that far!"

"Did he get physical with you at all?" Gil asked gravely.

"No, actually, he was really fairly gentlemanly about the whole thing. I turned him down. He did get angry, but he never touched me. He just stormed out."

"Yeah, and left you in unfamiliar woods by yourself. That's not very gentlemanly," Warrick pointed out. "You're lucky you found your way back to the house. According to the servants, those woods are extensive."

"It wasn't luck," Nick said. "I was paying close attention. I was half expecting something like this."

"What else did he say?" Gil asked.

"He said that his relationship with Charles Weston was over with, that it was Weston's fault for choosing to marry that, 'simpering, southern whore', were his exact words, I believe."

"This cabin, tell me about it," Gil said.

"Archer said that he frequently used it as a retreat, a place to get away from his parents. I got the impression that he and Weston used it as a love nest. Weston certainly didn't seem pleased that he wasn't part of the group with Archer and me. Dansforth may have decided that the relationship is over between him and Weston, but I'm not sure Weston agrees with that."

"Did you look around the cabin at all, after Dansforth left?"

"No, I didn't. I should have, but I wasn't sure how soon he was going to come back and, frankly, I just wanted to get the hell out of there."

"That's perfectly understandable."

"I can tell you that Archer has some very creepy hobbies. He practices taxidermy in his little cabin hideout and he likes to 'improve' on nature. He showed me this stuffed bird that he made, where he took the parts from different birds and pieced them together to make something new. It was very disturbing.

"If he did keep those skins he peeled off the dead women, they're in that cabin. I'm sorry, I should have looked around."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Gil said. "We should probably have Brass with us when we go through the cabin anyway, to make it all nice and legal. And to get Brass in there, we'll need a warrant or a more justifiable reason for entering… Greg?"

"Yes sir?"

"I want you to head into town and find Capt. Brass. It's a small town, he shouldn't be that hard to find. Bring him back here to the house. Try to be discreet. If necessary I'll make some excuse for why he's here, but we need to bring him up to date on what we've found out and this house doesn't have a telephone."

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Down in the servants' wing, Sara tried to look busy. The night before, Catherine had accidentally caught a heel on her petticoat and torn it, so Sara had volunteered to mend it for her, as this would generally be a maid's duty. Taking Catherine's small sewing kit, Sara sat down at the large table in the common area of the servants' quarters and began to sew.

She took her time with this task, hoping that the other servants, busy with their usual duties, would forget her presence and she might overhear something useful. After a half hour or so, Maggie came to join her. The other maid had a small pile of stockings which she began expertly darning.

The younger girl glanced over at Sara's handiwork once or twice, making Sara feel self-conscious. She knew she wasn't the most accomplished seamstress. She generally purchased her clothing ready-made, as she wasn't very particular about fashion. Generally the only sewing she did was the occasional repairs she made on Gil's, Greg's or Warrick's garments. And since none of them were very particular about fashion either, no one minded if her stitches weren't as tiny and even as they should have been.

When she finally finished her repairs, she realized there were no scissors in the sewing kit. Normally she would have simply bitten off the thread. After all, that was what she'd done when she'd threaded the needle. But she was reluctant to do that now that the other girl was present, fearing that it wouldn't look "professional". She was also reluctant to ask to borrow Maggie's scissors for the same reason.

Setting the undergarment aside, Sara stood up. "I'll be right back," she said to the other girl.

Leaving the common room, Sara headed for the linen closet, which was really more of a small room, where all of the bedding and towels for the house were stored. She was hoping that perhaps she would find a pair of scissors stored there as well, that she could borrow.

The linen closet was located very close to the back stairs of the house, so the bedding would be closer to the bedrooms. These back stairs, which were used primarily by the servants, were located close to the kitchen and the rear entrance to the house. As Sara was hunting through the small room, she heard male voices coming from the direction of the stairs. The door which separated the stairs from the hallway in which she stood, was ajar.

Very quietly, Sara moved closer to the door and peaked around it. Archer Dansforth and Charles Weston were standing on the stairs, arguing quietly. Dansforth had obviously only just returned to the house, through the back door. He was still wearing his heavy hunting clothes and his cheeks were still pink from the cold. He was standing a couple of steps above Weston and he glared down at the other man furiously.

"I assume you took Nick to the cabin," Weston was saying, a sneer in his voice. "But since he came back without you, I can also assume that he refused you. What, is he not interested in men, or just not you?"

"That's none of your damned business," Dansforth said coldly.

"It damned well is my business! For Heaven's sake, Archer, stop all this nonsense! You know my marriage to Blythe is a sham. You know I don't love her. I just need her money. She's a stupid, country girl, she'll never suspect anything. We can carry on as usual."

"As usual? I'm supposed to just pretend that I don't know that every night you share a bed with that… cow! Remember, Charles, you will be expected to perform your husbandly duties. You will be expected to get her with child. Am I supposed to just forget about that?"

"It won't mean anything, Archer, you know that! And yes, I will get her with child. I want a child. I want to be a father. That is part of the reason for marrying her. But we could pretend that it was our child."

As he spoke, Weston rose up to the next step and started to reach out to Dansforth. The taller man slapped his hand away and spoke in a scathing whisper.

"So, you expect me to be your 'mistress', your 'whore'? Is that it, Charles? I am no one's whore! That's your fiancée's role!"

"So, because of your pride, you'll just throw everything we had away and run to the arms of the first pretty boy you come across. Oh, but wait, he doesn't want you," Weston said smugly.

"It wasn't that Nick didn't want me. He was just being cautious, partly because of you. But I'm not worried about that. I can be very persuasive."

There was something very dark about the way that Dansforth said that last word that sent chills down Sara's spine. It was quite plain that this little lover's quarrel had gotten entirely out of hand. It was because of this little spat that countless women had been murdered and now it looked like Nick was in serious danger, definitely from one, possibly from both, of these two unstable and self-absorbed men.

Backing slowly away from the door, Sara turned and went in search of Greg or Warrick. Someone had to warn Nick of the danger he was in and it would look entirely too suspicious for her to try and approach him. Acting as Catherine's servant, Sara had no reason to speak directly to Nick. But Greg certainly could and even Warrick could without drawing too much attention.

Unfortunately Sara couldn't find the youngest member of the team anywhere. It was as if the boy had simply vanished. She eventually did find Warrick, but he had been roped into helping some of the other male servants unload a delivery wagon, which had just arrived. She didn't know how long this task would take, so she didn't bother to wait. Impatient, she decided that she would have to deliver the warning herself and headed for the main part of the house.

She found the guests all gathered in the large drawing room. There was a warm fire crackling cheerfully in the large fireplace and several of the guests, including Catherine, were seated at a two different tables, playing cards. Gil and the elder Mr. Dansforth were seated at another table playing chess. Nick was standing near the fireplace, speaking with Blythe Howard. The two were, no doubt, talking about home.

As the two Texans were standing near the door to another room, Sara made her way around the interconnecting maze of rooms to the one which she assumed that door led into. It appeared to be Mr. Dansforth's study. There was a great deal of wood paneling and heavy, masculine furniture. She opened the door to the drawing room cautiously. She could see Nick and Miss Howard directly in front of her, less than ten feet away. Nick had his back to her. She gave a soft hiss to try and get his attention. Unfortunately, it was Miss Howard, who was facing the door, that spied Sara first.

"I do believe that servant girl is trying to get your attention," Miss Howard said, in her syrupy Southern drawl and lifting her chin in Sara's direction.

Nick turned and saw the other girl in the doorway. Sara gestured for him to join her. He frowned slightly. What was she doing? She shouldn't be speaking to him. Quickly glancing around, he saw that no one else seemed to have noticed Sara. It was only Miss Howard who was aware of the social faux pas. He turned back to her.

"I'm sure the girl's only delivering a message," he said casually. "If you'll excuse me..?"

"Of course," Miss Howard said, although the smug expression on her face clearly indicated that she was assuming that Nick and Sara had other business entirely to "discuss".

Nick ignored this look and moved to join Sara in the study. She quickly shut the door behind him.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"You're in danger!" she blurted out.

"What are you talking about? From whom?"

"From Dansforth or Weston, or both."

"Sara, everyone is in danger from Dansforth. The man is insane, but Weston…?"

"I just overheard the two of them arguing, about you. Weston is very jealous of Dansforth's interest in you and Dansforth's pride was more than just a little bruised by your rejection of him. I don't think either of these men is completely stable. They've both spent their entire lives having everything handed to them and being told that they were better than everyone else. And now they're both being thwarted in getting what they want. It's a recipe for danger. And you are at the center of all of it!"

"No, Blythe Howard is at the center of all of it," Nick said calmly. "She's the one that's in danger. It's only a matter of time before Dansforth decides to vent his frustration on her, instead of her stand-ins."

In a sudden, compulsive rush of emotion, Sara grabbed Nick's hand with both of hers. "Please, promise me that you'll be careful around both Dansforth and Weston," she said earnestly.

"Alright, yes, I'll be careful," Nick said, with a slight chuckle, laying his free hand on top of hers and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

As they were standing this way, the door to the study opened and Archer Dansforth stepped into the dimly lit room. The only source of illumination was the dying afternoon sunlight, shining in through the single window at the far end of the room.

"Ah, Nick, here you are. Blythe said you'd come in here," Dansforth said coolly, his eyes focusing on Nick and Sara's joined hands.

They released each other as though both their hands were burning hot coals. Sara took a quick step back and lowered her eyes, in the properly respectful manner of a servant.

"Did you need me for something?" Nick asked.

He didn't bother trying to come up with some sort of an explanation for the situation. He knew that would only make him look guilty and would make the situation seem like more than what it was. Besides, it truly was none of Dansforth's business and the Texan was growing rather tired of the other man's proprietary attitude toward him.

"Uh, no, actually Mr. Grissom was asking about you."

"Oh, well then, I'll go and see what he wanted."

"Wait, a quick word with you? Do you mind?"

"No, of course not."

Dansforth turned to give Sara a very pointed look. The girl threw a quick glance at Nick and then dropped an even quicker curtsy to the two men. She left the room the same way she'd come in, out the door which opened onto the hallway.

"She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?" Dansforth said, his voice low and dangerous and his gaze lingering on the door where Sara had disappeared.

Nick felt a chill slide down his spine like a trickle of ice water. "Really? I hadn't noticed. She's a servant. I barely even look at them."

"You don't look at them, but you hold their hands?"

Realizing that he would have to come up with an explanation after all, Nick gave a slight shrug and smiled, saying, "The girl was upset. Apparently Catherine scolded her earlier. She was upset. I was just trying to calm her down. I was just being nice."

"Yes, just being nice…" Dansforth repeated very softly, his eyes still fixed on the door. Abruptly he turned back to face Nick. "Listen, I want to apologize for my behavior earlier this morning. It was inappropriate and cavalier. Again, I apologize."

"Apology accepted. Let's just forget it ever happened."

"Nick, I don't wa-."

Dansforth's words were cut off as the door to the study opened again. This time it was Gil who entered the room uninvited.

"Ah, Nick, I've been looking for you," the entomologist said, seemingly oblivious of the tension hanging thick enough to cut. "Catherine, Miss Howard and I would like to start another game of bridge, but we need one more person. Everyone else is all played out. Care to join us?"

"Yes, certainly," Nick said quickly, grateful for the excuse to get out of the room. "I'll be right there."

Turning back to Dansforth, the Texan said, "I'm sure we can continue this conversation at another time. Yes?"

"Yes, of course," the other man said, both his smile and his voice tight.

Nick and Gil left the room together, while Dansforth stayed where he was. As soon as the door was once again closed and separating them from the other man, Nick heaved a sigh of relief.

"Are you alright?" Gil asked, looking slightly amused.

"Yes, I'm fine. It's just that dealing with that man can be so stressful."

"Yes, I didn't really think he'd try anything right there in the study, with a roomful of guests just on the other side of the door, but I thought you might appreciate some assistance in extricating yourself."

"Yes, thank you," Nick said sincerely. "By the way, I don't actually know how to play bridge."

"That's quite alright. I actually hate the game. We'll just sneak out a side door and you can tell me what Dansforth had to say… or not."

Gil stopped as he spied Miss Howard waving to him from across the room. She and Catherine were seated at a round, felt covered card table, obviously expecting the two men to join them. Nick and Gil glanced at each other with expressions of resignation and moved to join the ladies.

The others were quite patient with Nick while he struggled to learn the complicated game. He and Gil were partnered against the ladies and since neither of the men particularly cared about the outcome, neither cared that they were losing badly.

Throughout the game, Miss Howard kept up a constant stream of inane conversation. Nick could only assume that at her finishing school, it had been emphasized that there should never be any of those awkward silences. They should always be filled with talk, regardless of how trivial. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on the game while listening to her non-stop chatter. He was beginning to wonder if this was actually part of her strategy.

Nick was concentrating so hard on the game, that he completely lost track of the time. It wasn't until Miss Howard announced that it was time for the guests to go upstairs to change for dinner that he realized just how late it had gotten. He glanced around the drawing room. Most of the other guests had evidently already gone upstairs. Only two others remained in the room. It was Dansforth's two friends, Michael and Daniel, who were playing a game of chess.

Declaring herself and Catherine the winners of the still-unfinished game, Miss Howard stood up from the table. The others stood as well. Taking Catherine's arm, the girl led the older woman away, towards the stairs, while the men followed behind at a slower pace.

"We'll find an opportunity to talk after dinner," Gil said, as the two men started up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, the guests separated to disappear into their respective bedrooms. Nick found his room empty, the fire burned down to glowing embers. Greg had evidently not yet returned from town with Capt. Brass. Nick took a few minutes to stoke up the fire, as the room was quite chilly, before he started to change into his evening clothes.

He was interrupted by a soft knock on his door. Fearing that it might be Archer wishing to continue their previous conversation, Nick was a bit reluctant to open the door. When he did, he found, not Archer Dansforth, but Catherine, Gil and Warrick all crowded in his doorway.

"Have you seen Sara?" Gil asked, his voice tense.

"I spoke to her just before we started playing bridge, why?"

"When you were in the study?"

"Yes, Dansforth walked in on us. She'd come to tell me that she'd overheard Dansforth and Weston arguing." Seeing the looks of concern that crossed the others' faces, Nick added, "Why?"

"Sara never came up to help me dress for dinner," Catherine said. "She should have been in the room, waiting for me."

"And she wasn't in the servants' wing," Warrick added. "I just came from there. I would have seen her."

"Where's Dansforth?" Nick asked.

"No one's seen him either. I just spoke to Johnny, Dansforth's valet, Dansforth wasn't in his room."

"We have to find them," Nick said decisively. "Let's split up. Warrick and I will search the servants' area. Gil, you and Catherine look around the main part of the house."

"What do we say to people?" Catherine asked. "This is going to look rather suspicious."

"To hell with all that! I think Dansforth has Sara and I think he's going to kill her. Think about it, she even fits the description of all the other victims, tall, pretty, brunette, a 'nobody'. Who's going to miss a servant girl with no family?"

Galvanized into action by Nick's chilling words, the group split up and went their separate ways. Nick and Warrick headed to the servants' wing, where they found Greg and Capt. Brass, just arriving. After quickly explaining the situation to the two new arrivals, they began questioning the servants. It didn't take long to learn that Dansforth had come storming into the servants' area, a couple of hours earlier, and had demanded to speak to Sara. Several of the servants had seen him grab the girl's arm and drag her out of the house.

"Why didn't any of you try to stop him?" Brass demanded.

"Most of us have learned the hard way, that when Master Archer is in one of his moods, it's best to just stay out of his way," one of the kitchen girls said.

"Well, why didn't one of you come and tell someone, like me or Mr. Grissom, or even Mrs. Willows? Sara is her maid, after all," Nick said.

"We didn't think anyone would listen to us. Mr. and Mrs. Dansforth never do."

Unable to argue with this dismal truth, the group went to find Gil and Catherine. Returning to the main part of the house, they found Gil and Catherine in the drawing room, along with everyone else. They had apparently informed the others of the situation, as Mr. Dansforth looked furious enough to chew nails and Mrs. Dansforth wore a lost, haunted sort of look.

"Did you find Sara?" Gil demanded as the group entered the room.

"No," Nick said, but before he could continue, he was cut off by Mr. Dansforth.

"You cannot really expect me to believe that my son had anything to do with that girl's disappearance. The little tramp is probably off meeting with some lover somewhere."

"In the middle of nowhere?" Nick asked. "In an area she's completely unfamiliar with? You can stop making excuses. We talked to the servants. They said they saw Archer drag Sara out of the house."

"Who said that? Give me names!" Mr. Dansforth demanded angrily.

"Why, so you can bribe and threaten them?"

"I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for all of this, I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding," Mrs. Dansforth said, her voice interrupting the arguing men. She didn't raise her voice. In fact, she spoke very quietly. But there was an edge of desperation, of almost despair, in her voice, that cut through the others' voices and captured everyone's attention as if she had screamed.

Looking at her, Nick realized that she knew. She had known all along that her son was a monster. She had simply refused to acknowledge it. After all, what would the neighbors say? And really, what could she have done? Her husband obviously couldn't or wouldn't see it and his word carried far more weight than hers. She was trapped in a household with two men who hated her. It was probably easier to simply pretend that everything was fine. Hell, it was probably the only way she could survive and remain sane. Nick felt a sudden upwelling of pity for this woman.

"Everything's fine, I'm sure. Archer's a good boy. He'd never hurt anyone." She kept repeating these words over and over. It was as if she thought that by the simple act of repeating them, she could will them to be true.

Dragging his attention away from the disturbing sight of the distraught woman, Nick turned back to the rest of the team.

"Get warm coats and boots. I know where he took her," Nick said. "It's a long walk and we have to hurry if we're going to save Sara."

Without waiting to see if anyone was following his directions, Nick headed upstairs to quickly change into warm clothes and boots. He also tucked his big Bowie knife into his belt and slipped the little derringer into the pocket of his duster.

Arriving back downstairs, he found Greg, Warrick and Brass ready to go. Gil was only a few minutes behind him. The men were about to head out when Catherine came running down the stairs as well. She was still wearing the burgundy wool dress she'd been wearing earlier, but had pulled on a pair of heavier boots and a long, wool coat.

As she caught up to the men, Gil started to speak, but the red-head quickly interrupted him. "Don't even start with me, Gil," she said. "I'm coming along and we don't have time to argue about it."

Immediately realizing that there was nothing he could do, Gil said, "Let's go."

Outside, it was fully dark and a light snow had begun to fall. While the others had been changing into warmer clothes, Warrick and Greg had rounded up some lanterns and electric lights. Distributing them among the searchers, the group began shining them around the grounds. Unfortunately, there were plenty of tracks in the snow, from the hunting trip earlier in the day, as well as from servants moving around on the grounds.

Nick ignored most of these tracks and headed for the woods and the trail which led to the old gamekeeper's cabin. The others followed him. Reaching the trail, he paused to examine the ground for a moment. He quickly found the confirmation he was looking for.

"Yes, just as I thought, he's taking her to the cabin," Nick reported to the others.

"How can you tell? There are footprints everywhere," Brass asked.

"Look there, see those deep gouges in the snow? Someone was dragged through here. And see how the snow has been lightly swept along here? Those marks were made by a woman's skirts brushing the snow."

Brass nodded and the group continued along the trail, moving at a quick walk. They made good time, although none of them would have guessed it. To them, walking through the ankle-deep snow was like trying to move through quicksand. And it seemed more like an eternity before they finally saw the faint glow of lights coming from the windows of the small cabin.

As they approached, everyone dowsed their lights and Jim moved close to Nick and asked him about the cabin's layout.

"So far as I saw, there's only one door. There's only one, large room on the main floor and a small loft that's probably only big enough for one room as well," the former Ranger explained.

"Alright," Jim said quietly, taking charge and addressing the group as a whole. "This is how we're going to handle this. Since Nick and I are the only ones armed and with law enforcement experience, we'll go in first. Warrick and Gil will back us up. Catherine, you and Greg stay outside and cover the cabin, just in case, Dansforth has some kind of bolt-hole we don't know about and tries to escape. If either of you spot him, yell for us."

With Jim and Nick in the lead, the group moved closer to the house, as quietly as possible. Once they got within a few hundred feet of the cabin, Catherine and Greg took cover in a clutch of small evergreen trees. The four men continued on up to the door of the cabin and took up positions by the door, Jim and Warrick on one side and Nick and Gil on the other. Both Jim and Nick had their weapons drawn. Nick had given his knife to Warrick.

While standing outside the cabin, they heard Sara cry out. This sound was abruptly silenced as they heard another sound of someone being struck. Nick clenched his jaw tighter and glanced at Jim, waiting for the signal. He didn't have to wait long. The older man gave a quick nod and Nick stepped up and kicked the handle of the door. The flimsy old wood splintered easily and the door banged open. The four men swarmed into the room, Jim and Nick in the lead, weapons up and at the ready.

They found Archer Dansforth standing beside the bed, a large, wicked-looking knife in his hand, poised for action. Sara was tied to the bed. There was blood on her face, but she was conscious and still fighting to free herself. As Dansforth looked up at them, they saw that his once handsome face was contorted with hideous rage.

"My name is Capt. Brass," that man announced. "I'm with the police. Put the weapon down!"

"Go to hell!" Dansforth roared and moved as if to strike.

Even as small as Nick's Derringer was, the sound of its report seemed deafening in the confined space of the cabin. The bullet struck Dansforth high on the shoulder, probably shattering his collarbone, and knocking him back a couple of steps. The knife clattered to the wooden floor from his nerveless fingers and he screamed in agony as he dropped to his knees, clutching his ruined shoulder.

Jim and Nick moved forward cautiously, weapons still trained on the injured man. While they covered him, Gil and Warrick began untying Sara. After a moment, Catherine and Greg came running into the house, both breathless and anxious.

"I thought I told you two to stay outside," Jim said, his eyes never leaving the crumpled form of Dansforth.

"Yeah, but you didn't say for how long," Greg pointed out.

Once Sara was freed and delivered into Catherine's comforting arms, the men used those same ropes to bind Dansforth. The tall man, who had murdered and mutilated countless women to appease his impotent rage, now sat huddled on the floor, sobbing and whimpering like a child.

As Jim and Warrick hauled him to his feet, Dansforth raised his tear-streaked face and looked over at Nick, his expression hurt and confused. "You shot me," Archer whispered in dazed amazement.

"Yeah, I did," the Texan said flatly. "Be thankful it was only your shoulder."

"But why? What did I ever do to you?"

"Why?" Nick repeated incredulously. "You murdered more than twenty women."

"So? They were whores. Why do you care?"

"Well, one of those 'whores', the first one you killed in Dallas, her name was Kristy Hopkins and she was my friend. The girl you killed in Memphis, Tennessee, her name was Charlotte Murphy and she had a three-year-old daughter named Emily, who's now an orphan. The girl you killed outside the theater in New York was named Stephanie Watson and she was Catherine's friend. And that girl right there, her name is Sara Sidle and she's our friend. That's why we care!"

But Dansforth only stared at Nick as though the Texan had just sprouted horns. It was apparent that Dansforth had no idea that he had done anything wrong. Knowing that he needed to get away from the man or possibly do something permanent, Nick grabbed a lit lantern from a nearby shelf and stalked up the steps to the loft. He needed to cool down, but he also wanted to search the loft for more evidence.

Jim could definitely arrest the man on charges of attempted murder, but so far they had no real proof that he'd killed the other women. He hadn't denied the accusation, but he hadn't admitted it either. If they were going to try and hold him responsible for the other murders, they needed more evidence.

Up in the loft, Nick found a long, crude, wooden table where Dansforth obviously worked on his grisly hobby. The table was heavily stained with various fluids, but it was reasonably clean. The rest of the room was neat and tidy. A couple of bookshelves held more examples of Dansforth's "creations" and in a far, shadowy corner sat a small trunk.

Trying the lid of the trunk, Nick found it was locked. He shot the lock out with the gun and lifted the lid. Inside he found the dried, preserved skins of all the murdered women, stacked neatly in the trunk like the discarded masks from a costume ball in Hell. He couldn't bring himself to touch any of them, but he sank slowly down, to sit on the floor beside the trunk.

"Everything okay up there?" Nick heard Jim yell from the room below.

"Yeah!" the Texan responded.

He sat for a long time, just staring numbly into space, oblivious of the world around him. Just how long he sat there, he didn't know, but he jumped slightly when he heard the soft scrape of Catherine's boots on the stairs.

"Are those what I think they are?" she asked, from her position at the top of the stairs, gesturing toward the open trunk.

"Yes," Nick said softly, quickly closing the lid. Somewhat to his surprise, she didn't protest this action.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"Jim, Gil and Greg took Dansforth and Sara back to the house. We should probably get going, too. It's getting late."

"Yeah."

Nick carried the trunk downstairs. It wasn't particularly heavy, but Warrick insisted on helping the Texan carry the box on the long walk back to the house.

"As my grandma always said, 'a burden shared, is a burden halved,'" the black man said.

Nick found that he was grateful for the assistance. The walk somehow seemed even longer on the way back than it had on the way to the cabin. Maybe because Nick knew that at the end of that walk, he would again have to face Cynthia Dansforth and her all-too-knowing eyes. He wondered how the already fragile woman would try to explain away the irrefutable evidence contained in the trunk he and Warrick carried between them?

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The large, heavy-set porter stepped into the cavernous lobby of New York's Grand Central Station, to loudly announce the imminent arrival of the west-bound train to Chicago. Nick stood and turned to face the rest of the team, who had come to the train station to see him off.

"Well, that's my train…" he said unnecessarily.

Gil stepped forward and extended his hand. "You know that you are always welcome at my home, if you should ever find yourself in New York again."

"Thank you, sir," Nick said, shaking the extended hand.

"Yeah, the New York City Police Department could always use more honest detectives," Jim said. "You know, in case you can't get your old job with the Rangers back. I could put in a good word for you. Roosevelt was impressed with the work you did to help us catch Dansforth."

"Yeah? I'll think about it."

Jim and Nick also shook hands and the Texan turned to the two women. After receiving kisses and warm hugs from both of them, he turned to the two younger men.

"You better come back to New York," Warrick said, with a smile. "Otherwise, Greg and I might have to come down to Texas and drag your ass back up here."

"Oh, well, I'm terrified," Nick said dryly. "But in all seriousness, I imagine I will be back. There's really nothing holding me in Texas. But I need to see my family before I make any new plans."

He exchanged quick hugs with the two younger men, gathered up his scant luggage and started to head toward the train platform. He had only gotten a few steps before he stopped and turned back to the group.

"You know, I've heard there's plenty of work out in the Nevada silver mines. They say that's the place to be, the next frontier to tame. Maybe we should all pull up stakes and move out there, start over," he said.

"I don't think so," Gil said. "Silver or not, Nevada is nothing but desert and that's all it ever will be. No one wants to go the desert."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

THE END


End file.
